


One Miracle at a Time

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Tron (Movies), Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Post-Movie(s), Program Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Sexual Tension, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000, Wordcount: Over 10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-19
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:24:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam doesn't find what he's looking for when he returns to the Grid. But he does find something he needs.</p><div class="center">
<br/><img/></div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The sun comes up on his first day out of the Grid, and the first thing Sam Flynn does is make Alan Bradley chairman of Encom's Board of Directors.

It's not a painless process. A lot of feathers get ruffled, a lot of angry words are exchanged. Lawyers are called in, paperwork gets thrown around. All in all it's a maelstrom of noisy bureaucracy.

Sam learns more about what it takes to run a major corporation in that one day than he has in a short lifetime as majority shareholder. He learns it's not going to be easy, it's not going to be boring, and he's going to have to work on his people skills.

"I've made a mess, haven't I," he mutters, slumping forward over the conference table. The surface is cool and smooth against his forehead, and the room is blessedly quiet.

"You certainly have," says Alan, but there's genuine humor in his voice. "Don't worry, though. It's my job to help you clean it up." Alan's hand squeezes his shoulder, and Sam smiles despite his exhaustion.

"Tell me it gets easier." He eases himself upright and cocks his head so he can meet Alan's wry look.

"It will," says Alan. "Eventually." He lets go of Sam's shoulder and starts gathering documents into his briefcase. Those are important documents, Sam knows. Documents with bylaws and signatures and information about just who gets to be in charge of Encom.

"Eventually could be a long way off, Alan. I was hoping for a little more instant gratification than that."

Alan's expression is humoring as he snaps his briefcase closed and turns his attention back to Sam.

"They'll never stop fighting you," he says, sounding far too cheerful about it. "But once they know you're in for the long haul, they'll come around a little. This is a good company, Sam. It just… got a little off track."

Sam stands then, and takes a step around the table towards Alan.

"Thank you," he says. He feels self-conscious voicing the words. He's not really one to talk about feelings, even with Alan

Alan blinks at him, surprised confusion on his face, and asks, "For what?"

"For everything."

Sam tries to imagine where he'd be standing right now if not for the unfailing loyalty of his father's best friend. He finds it impossible to picture.

"You've always been there, even when things were crazy," Sam says with a sheepish shrug. "And you never gave up on me, which… fuck, man, you must be a saint or something." If it weren't for Alan Bradley, Sam would never have known what happened to his father, and that possibility is too awful to consider.

Alan looks both pleased and uncomfortable, and Sam knows his words are hitting their mark. He also knows with a surreal certainty that Alan is inches away from bolting out of the conference room. Not without a polite farewell, of course, but fleeing all the same, when what Sam needs is for him to understand.

The depth of Sam's gratitude is staggering, and he doubts he'll be able to work up the nerve for this conversation a second time.

Alan is already standing with briefcase in hand, facing Sam down like he's trying to find a way to make a dignified exit.

Sam steps forward abruptly and hugs him, not giving himself a chance to over-think it and chicken out.

Alan freezes in surprise at first, and Sam doesn't blame him. The last time they hugged was Sam's high school graduation. Sam feels guilty as hell for the distance now. He's kept Alan stubbornly at arm's length for damn near a decade, and why? Because he wanted to pretend he didn't need to rely on anyone.

Eventually Alan hugs him back. Hesitantly at first, then more confidently when Sam tugs him closer. Sam feels a little silly squashing his face against Alan's shoulder, but he doesn't let go.

"Thank you," he says again, and the words get muffled in Alan's suit jacket.

"You don't need to thank me, Sam," says Alan, patting him on the back a little bit awkwardly.

Sam laughs and finally steps back, forcing himself to ignore the way Alan's eyes are shining—the way his own eyes sting despite the smile on his face.

"Still," Sam says, scrubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. "Thanks. I mean it."

Alan nods and smiles, and doesn't contradict him again.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

The second thing Sam does, the very next day, is find Quorra her own apartment.

She looks confused when he mentions his purpose at breakfast. She looks even more confused four hours later when he shows her the place. It's short notice for the landlord, but Sam's got enough money to make it happen anyway.

"I still don't understand," she says, trailing curious fingers over a lampshade in the fully furnished living room.

"I just thought you might want your own space," Sam says. He feels inexplicably sheepish. "Let me know if you don't like it. We can look at other options."

Quorra blinks at him, eyes wide and dark as she processes his words.

"My own space," she repeats tentatively.

"Yeah," says Sam. He moves to the window and pulls the string to raise the blinds. "It's only a couple blocks from my digs, see?" He points toward the water front, down past the bridge to where his own garage-cum-apartment is nestled in the tall shadows. "You deserve something nicer than my couch to sleep on."

When he turns back around he finds Quorra watching him with a hesitant smile on her face.

"My own space," she says again, this time as though testing the words on her tongue. "I've never really had that before."

Sam can't imagine what that's like, but he smiles and says, "You'll have to let me know what you think."

 

\- — - — - — - — -

The third thing he does, that same night, is let himself hope.

He's got a self-contained hard drive in the alcove that passes for his office, and after reformatting it to a clean slate, he reaches for the small blinking pendant hanging around his neck.

His hands shake as he plugs the backup memory drive into the computer, and his heart lodges in his throat as he watches the data transfer onto the new mainframe. The bar of color expands grudgingly, seconds upon seconds, until finally the transition is complete.

Sam puts the backup drive around his neck again. Then, pulling the keyboard towards him, he delves into the system.

The code is a mess. Fragmented subroutines, glitches, corrupted data… He can barely make out the infrastructure his father was trying to build.

But the framework is there. His father's code, his vision, wrapped up in even the disrupted information scrolling before Sam's eyes. The Grid is still in there somewhere—he can almost see it. The question comes down to the extent of the damage, and whether Sam is capable of reconstructing the scrambled, outdated code.

It might take a miracle, but he's determined to try.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He falls asleep only reluctantly that night, and then only because he doesn't trust his bleary eyes to read the computer screen.

He barely registers his bed or pillow, or the clock by his head glowing green and telling him it's late as hell. He just collapses, instantly unconscious.

He dreams of dark skies and red circuits, and programs chasing him through empty streets.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam wakes and it's nearly noon. He shuffles towards the kitchen, and is halfway past the couch before he realizes the low piece of furniture is occupied.

He stifles a startled noise and, despite the racket his heart is making in his chest, a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Quorra is asleep, sprawled across the couch with one arm tucked under her head, the other squashed close against her chest. Her hair sticks up strangely, as though she's repositioned several times during the night, and she's wearing the same outfit now as she was when Sam last saw her. Only the boots are missing, abandoned beside the couch.

Marvin snores noisily, curled into a contented ball on Quorra's hip.

Sam doesn't have the heart to wake either of them.

It's Saturday, but he checks in with Alan anyway. Sam _is_ in for the long haul, and if there are any fresh fires to be put out at Encom, then Sam damn well wants to know.

But as soon as the call ends, Sam is back at his desk, buried in the same code as yesterday. Doing what he can to reconstruct it into a coherent whole.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when a hand closes on his shoulder.

" _Jesus_ ," he gasps when he realizes it's just Quorra. "Give a guy a little warning."

Quorra gives him a strange look and says, "I've been watching you work for an hour, Sam. I thought you had noticed."

"Oh." Sam closes down the current string of code, suddenly self-conscious.

"What are you working on?" Quorra asks. "It looked like—"

"The Grid," Sam says. "Yeah. I'm…. just trying to see what's left."

Quorra watches him for a moment, quiet and inscrutable, and Sam resists the urge to fidget. Then her expression brightens, excitement and comprehension breaking over her face, and she gasps.

"You can fix it," she says. Her tone is breathy with awe, and now Sam _does_ fidget. He twitches beneath the impact of the unexpected faith shining in Quorra's eyes.

"I'm trying," he says. "I honestly don't know if there's enough left _to_ fix, but…" But he has to try. He has to try, and he can't bring himself to put the reason into words.

But Quorra—bright and fast and too observant for her own good—puts it together for him.

"Do you think he's still in there?" she asks.

"I don't know," Sam admits. "Probably not." Reintegration. He saw what happened just before he and Quorra were swallowed up by the light of the portal. "But if there's even a chance, I have to try. I can't risk leaving him trapped again."

"Do you need me to leave so you can work?" Quorra asks.

"No," says Sam. "Hell, maybe you can help. What are you doing here, anyway? Didn't you like the new place?"

Quorra looks sheepish now, ducking her head and smiling at him through her bangs.

"It was too quiet," she admits. "And your couch is nice."

Sam chuckles and Quorra smiles wider.

They'll have to find a better solution eventually. This place isn't really big enough for two.

But he's never had a roommate before. And while Sam's never really been big on company in general, Quorra's presence he doubts he'll mind.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Weeks turn into months, and Sam's miracle doesn't come.

It turns out there's only so much code he can rebuild this way. He's limited by screen and keyboard, by his ability to decipher line upon line of scrolling text. Eventually he hits a wall, and no amount of tweaking and fiddling and looking at the problem from different angles is enough to surmount the obstacle.

"I have to go back in," he tells Quorra.

"That's probably a bad idea," she says in a light tone. Almost teasing him. She obviously knows he can't be dissuaded.

"Will you monitor the Grid from the outside?" he asks. She won't be able to do anything if his plan goes poorly, but he feels reassured just thinking about having her there.

Quorra looks surprised and says, "You don't want me to go in with you?"

"I need you here," says Sam. "As long as you're safe outside, the aperture can't close on me. You'll be able to reactive the laser sequence and give me another chance."

"What if I reopen the portal and you don't come back out?" she asks. She looks a lot less happy with his proposal now that it's clear Sam intends to go in alone.

"We'll have a backup plan," he says, already twisting the possibilities around in his head. "We'll set a limit, say three intervals, and if I don't come back, you call Alan Bradley and you tell him everything." He's speaking the thoughts as they occur to him, but he already knows it's a solid plan. He knows Alan would never let him down.

"Are you sure about this, Sam?" Quorra asks. She won't try to stop him, but that doesn't mean Sam misses the disapproval knitting her brows and darkening her features.

"Yeah," he says, offering what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "I'm pretty damn sure."

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Physically, the Grid is in chaos.

Buildings stand jagged and patchy, partial towers and ragged structures that fizzle brightly along rough edges. The city looks staticky and incomplete.

Sam watches the uneven skyline from a distance. Quorra is in the arcade, monitoring things from the outside as best she can—watching on the screen Sam brought over along with the computer itself. The last thing they need is her sitting at the center console, right in the laser's line of fire.

Sam is surprised the laser put him at such a distance from the city itself. But then again, Sam has been recoding for months now from the outside. A lot has changed down here, between the cataclysm of Reintegration and the work he's done since. Who knows if the Grid re-creation of Flynn's Arcade is even still standing, considering the view before him now.

The Sea of Simulation laps at his heels, and Sam weighs his options. If the physical structure of the Grid is in such ragged pieces, the people of the Grid can't be much better off. Which means the city is probably not the safest place for a User right now.

But if he's going to fix things, he has to get closer. And he has to move fast now that he's here. The portal is open behind him, a bright screaming beacon to tell any program who notices that a User is stepping back onto the Grid.

If he doesn't move now, they'll come for him soon enough anyway.

He glances down and sees he's in some colorless semblance of his normal clothes rather than the sleek, black, brightly-circuited bodysuit from his first visit.

He's too conspicuous like this. The clothes look too much like something from the world above. They're dark, but still nothing like the skintight fashions marking denizens of the Grid. And a body that emits no light will inevitably stand out.

Sam reaches down with one hand and realizes this will be his first real experiment to see what he can do. He's never manipulated code from inside the system. He's not even sure he _can_.

But as his fingers skate the air he can feel, if he focuses just right, the algorithmic contours of the world around him. He tweaks and readjusts, watches white bursts of code ripple away in the air, and smiles in satisfaction when several slim panels of blue-white light form along his sleeves, his sides, the zipper of his coat.

It's still not quite enough. He dances his fingers through the air a second time and calls a dark, heavy cloak into being. If no one recognizes his face, if they can't see the details of his attire, he might just pull this off.

With the cloak in one hand, he reaches over his shoulder with the other and feels a soft thrum as his fingers graze his disc. He settles the cloak securely across his shoulders, draws the hood down over his face, and heads for the city.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He's not sure what he expects to find when he reaches the city limits. Some sort of de facto government, maybe, or warring factions vying for control in a leaderless vacuum.

What he finds instead is chaotic disorder. The people of the Grid are lost, fighting and struggling amongst themselves. There's not enough of anything to go around, not even shelter since the physical infrastructure of the city is so widely compromised.

Sam doesn't talk to anyone at first. Mostly he doesn't trust himself not to draw unwanted attention, but he also doesn't know what questions to ask yet.

He can't very well walk up to the nearest Siren and ask if she's seen Kevin Flynn wandering around.

Besides, much as he may hate to admit it to himself, Sam knows his father isn't in the city. If he were, things wouldn't still be in pieces. Repairs would be underway on the most important buildings. Programs wouldn't be wandering around wearing pixilated scars that leave them hobbling and incomplete. Citizens wouldn't be moving through their city with the lost dejection of abandoned children.

There are some excited mutterings about the relighting of the beacon, but they die down quickly when Sam doesn't reveal himself.

He can't afford to give himself away yet. For all he knows, he's as likely to be lynched as lauded.

What he needs to do for now is lie low, and figure out his next plan of attack.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He tries to think in terms of what-if.

What if his father survived Reintegration: where would he go? Would he be weak and vulnerable? Would he even remember who he was?

Sam imagines his dad hiding somewhere and remembers the off-Grid domicile. There's no way he would choose the same hideaway twice.

If Kevin Flynn is hiding somewhere off-Grid, Sam's got no idea how to find him. But there's another possibility. Certain sectors of the city are so damaged that not even the most desperate programs live there. Those are places where the streets themselves are unreliable, the buildings drowning in glitches and grid bugs on a massive scale. Deadly to programs. Dangerous enough to a lone User.

Sam starts asking questions, then. Quiet and discreet. Which districts are the worst? Which corners are to be avoided at all costs. Those are the places he needs to start his search.

"Plan to go treasure hunting, do you?" asks a pale program with a plasticky smile. "Dangerous business. Especially in those sectors. You'll probably need this." He reaches out to offer Sam a light stick, but when Sam reaches to accept it the program doesn't let go.

"What's your price?" Sam asks. The program smiles wider.

"Just that, should you happen to survive and return with anything… interesting. You come to me first."

Sam nods. Even if the program's offer stems purely from self-interest, Sam will happily repay this favor.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Perl," the program says, and lets go of the light stick.

As Sam turns to leave, the program speaks again, calling from behind him and making Sam turn around.

"Keep your eyes open when you're out there, my friend. Rumor has it Tron might not be as dead as history has led us to believe."

There's a hint of bitter malice in the words. Sam turns and leaves without acknowledging them.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam starts in Zeta Sector. He plans only to search, as cautiously as he can, and then move on.

But as he dismounts his Lightcycle and steps onto the glitchy, empty street, a surge of something sharp and guilty lodges in his chest. He can't leave things like this.

His cycle collapses and he tucks the light stick into his back pocket. His robe, shed by necessity for the duration of his journey, is tucked under his arm, but he doesn't put it back on yet.

There's no one here to see him.

Sam surveys the damage for long moments, feeling sick and overwhelmed at the extent of the corrupted data. Christ, he doesn't even know where to _start_.

Then he looks down, at the tiny patch of solid ground beneath his feet, and knows what the first step has to be.

He drops to one knee and, setting his cloak aside, presses a hand flat against the smooth pavement. He can see the length of the street in his mind, the planes and gaps spreading in either direction. He can see fractured code, and he can see what that code is _supposed_ to look like, and gradually—carefully—he starts filling in the holes.

He doesn't know how long he works. When the first street is solid, he moves on to the next, then the next after that. He moves on to a building without heed for the danger that it might simply fall down on top of him. The wall shakes beneath his touch, and he shores it up the best he can. But the corruption lies at the building's foundations, so he goes inside.

Sam finds his way down through basements and sub-basements, and he patches the structure back to a smooth, seamless whole.

He moves on to the next building as soon as he finishes, and another edifice after that. He works without pause, without conscious thought, until finally he steps back onto the street and sees nothing else to fix.

The sector stands bright and smooth as new.

And Sam, suddenly exhausted, wonders where he left his cloak, just as weary darkness washes over him and drags him down.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He comes awake with a jolt, already cursing his own stupidity. He overexerted himself, fell asleep smack in the middle of the street. What if someone had found him, Jesus, he's lucky to be waking up at all—

But he's not in the street. He's in a small room he recognizes, high in one of the buildings he just finished restoring.

There's a large window on one wall, and through it Sam can see the revitalized skyline of the sector. Beyond that, from this vantage point he can see the staggering damage that still tarnishes the rest of the city.

He's lying on something soft—a tall couch, he realizes as he sits up—and his cloak lies folded near his feet.

There's a glass of glowing blue liquid on the floor beside him, and Sam's eyes dart around the room in search of whoever is responsible.

The room is empty except for him. He's not surprised to find it so.

He dons his cloak as he stands, picking up the glass and moving closer to the window. He considers the drink suspiciously for a moment, then decides there's no point worrying. Whoever left him the drink had ample opportunity to do him harm. Why poison him now?

His first sip is tentative, but then he swallows the rest of the blue energy in greedy gulps. It settles and swirls inside him, makes him realizes just how drained his marathon of reconstruction left him.

He'll have to be more careful about pacing himself. Guardian angels are all well and good, but whoever finds him next time could be just as likely to slit his throat.

He's considering this as his eyes, already surveying the next sector over, are drawn down by the sight of movement on street level.

A small crowd of programs has found their way here, and now explores with cautious fascination. They must have noticed the changes in the distance and come to investigate. Sam is too high up to make out their expressions, and he suddenly wishes he could see.

He steps back from the window, already planning a route to avoid attention on his way to the next sector.

His father isn't here. There's not a single building Sam hasn't touched in this sector. If his father had been hiding in any of these structures, Sam would know.

He sets the empty glass on the floor, tucks his cloak more securely around himself, and moves on.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He takes longer repairing the next section of the Grid. He keeps to a slower pace that doesn't leave him nearly as drained, while he searches fruitlessly for signs of his father in every repaired corridor and street.

He might be imagining the sensation that he's being watched, but he doesn't think so.

Programs start turning up before he's finished his work this time, and he has to be careful to avoid detection as he finishes raising and repairing structures around them. It's even slower work, then, and he ends up creating more than a few back doors from scratch.

When his work is complete, still with no sign of his father, Sam moves on to the next sector on his list. And the next after that. The beacon has vanished, the portal closed, but he knows exactly how long it will be before Quorra reopens it.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

In the next sector, he's not quite fast enough.

His cloak feels like insufficient protection against the circle of programs penning him in against the wall of the tower he just finished restructuring.

"Who are you?" a tall, stark program demands. She would be beautiful if it weren't for the jagged pixels of broken code that slash at an angle across her face. Sam thinks maybe he could fix her, if he could just get close.

But she sounds scared and angry, and he knows better than to reveal himself.

He knows what terror can do, and he doesn't think a truthful answer will earn him a relieved smile and a pat on the back.

The Grid has given up on itself, and on the concept of Users. He'll find nothing here but distrust and violence, unless he can manage to heal more than just the physical damage that was done. The nearest programs are already twitching towards their light discs.

Sam's still trying to come up with a plausible lie when an explosion of light draws the programs' attention farther down the street. Sam stares, half expecting to watch one of his freshly repaired buildings crumble, but there's no new damage. Another surge of light bathes the horizon.

"What is that?" one of the programs asks, and Sam's own curiosity doesn't matter. This is his chance to escape.

The programs aren't look at him, and he presses back against the wall. It takes the tiniest manipulation of code to make the surface swing out and rotate, and then he's on the other side, the wall unbroken, and he runs.

His questions about the well-timed fireworks will have to wait. What he needs right now is backup, and he sets off down a narrow alley, towards the edge of the sector, with an eye towards returning to the center of the city.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam's honestly not sure what qualifies as 'anything interesting', but he has a couple crystals of data in his pocket now. He found them in a ravine between sectors. He's already absorbed the information for himself. The crystals contain dark recordings of the early days of the purge, images that leave his stomach twisting and his heart sore. They might be sufficient to repay the favor he owes.

He hopes they're _more_ than sufficient (and considering the value of information on the Grid, they might be), because now he needs some fresh information himself.

"I'm looking for Perl," he says to a silver-faced program beside a noisy overpass. The program directs him to a bar several blocks away and then leaves him without a word.

Inside, Perl finds him.

"Well _this_ is a surprise," the program murmurs, sidling up beside Sam and handing him a drink. "Not just alive but looking for _me_? Tell me, what did you find?"

There's a look in Perl's eyes that goes deeper than curiosity. Suspicion. Maybe hope. Sam prays Perl is a program who knows how to keep his mouth shut, because suddenly he thinks he's damn close to getting found out.

Sam produces the crystals—tiny things that rest sparkling in his palm—and holds them out. He doesn't plan on snatching them away if the program tries to take them. He figures, balanced trade or not, he's still got that debt to repay.

But Perl just stares at the two crystals in Sam's palm, expression eager and excited, and says, "My, my… Where did you get those?"

"In Gamma Sector," Sam lies.

"Did you?" says Perl, raising his eyes to Sam's face and looking right through him. "And… is there anything you might consider a fair trade for them?" The fact that he's still hesitating tells Sam the crystals' value exceeds his expectations by more than he realized, and he gives a tight smile.

"Just some information," says Sam. "They're yours if you promise to answer some questions for me. In good faith."

"And if I don't have the information you need?" Perl asks, eyes gauging.

"They're still yours, but I'll know to take my business elsewhere next time."

Perl's face lights up at that, bright and genuine, and he holds a hand out, palm up. Waiting for Sam to drop the crystals into his hand. Sam obliges, and Perl guides him to a relatively quiet corner.

"Now, my friend," says Perl. "What _can_ I do for you?"

"Tell me what you know about Tron."

Perl's eyes widen at the demand, but he doesn't balk.

"Well," says Perl. "Obviously you know the rumors."

"Pretend I don't," says Sam. When Perl looks at him skeptically, he adds, "Humor me. Just start from the beginning."

"Officially? No one has seen him since before the Purge. He fought Clu. Most say he was derezzed for his resistance."

"And unofficially?"

"Unofficially, there are those of the opinion that he simply left. That he's been out there all along. Biding his time, or maybe just hiding like a coward. There have been… incidents in recent cycles. Sightings, if you prefer. A program with a dark helmet and blue circuits. No one's gotten a good look, of course, assuming the stories are even true."

"Do _you_ think they're true?"

Perl pauses. Considers him with a heavy stare that leaves Sam fidgety and uncomfortable. Finally he opens his mouth to speak.

"I think there's more than one familiar face on the Grid right now," says Perl. "And I think hope is a dangerous luxury. But then, without it, where do we find ourselves?"

"Will you help me?" Sam murmurs.

"In any way I can."

"Then where can I find him?" Sam asks. " _How_ can I find him."

"My dear boy," Perl laughs. "If he's really out there, don't you think he'll find _you_? Who do you think he fights for, after all?"

 _The Users_ , Sam realizes with a jolt. _Tron fights for the Users_.

He thinks back over his repair efforts—passing out and waking in safety, the glass of blue energy, the perfectly timed light-storm enabling his most recent escape—and realizes Tron has been fighting for him since his first moment back on the Grid.

"Thank you," he says, and in a surge of gratitude reaches out and squeezes Perl's arm. " _Thank you_ ," he repeats, and then, "If I can come back, I will."

Then Perl leans in close enough to whisper in his ear, so softly Sam can barely make out the words. "Be careful, son of Flynn. The Grid is not safe for you, and there is much work to be done."

Sam withdraws with a grim nod, and turns to leave the bar.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He makes for another abandoned sector, this one more remote than the others. It's not quite as badly damaged as the areas where he began, but he'll be able to work in peace for a while. This location breaks pattern, and it will take longer for anyone to notice the changes in this segment of the horizon.

There's even more extensive damage between this neighborhood and the next populated area of the city. The sight of gradual repairs should be shielded from prying eyes.

Except for the eyes he _wants_ to have prying. He knows, somehow, it will only be a matter of time before his target catches up with him.

Sam doesn't know why Tron hasn't approached him yet, but he's got some idea now what he has to do.

He works slowly, taking the time to feel deeper—searching for the first time _beneath_ the Grid, and discovering that some of the fault-lines run deeper than he realized. Once he's got the surface world stable, he's going to have to go in and do a more extensive reboot. The fragmentation is too much for him to take on like this.

He waits until the sense of being watched is completely unmistakable, and then he pauses in his work and stretches out with his programmer's senses. He wouldn't have been able to do this before, but he's become more familiar with this world. He understands the mechanics, the rules, and he can feel where those rules bend and intersect.

Everything is within his reach.

There's a shorter building on one corner, less damaged than the rest. Bands of light zigzag up its sides, and a flat roofline looks out over the street.

Sam knows he has to move fast, or that rooftop will be empty by the time he gets there.

He doesn't actually look at his destination. He tries to keep himself to his usual pace as he rounds a corner, out of sight, and then darts into the first building he sees. The basement is intact, and he makes himself a sleek passage into the next building over, then the next, until he's beneath his goal.

There's already an elevator here, and he hits the top button hoping it will take him to the roof.

It does.

He steps out into open air, and he's not alone.

The figure at the edge of the roof turns instantly when Sam approaches, about to bolt.

"Wait," Sam says in a soft, commanding voice. "Please don't go."

He stares at the program before him and takes a few cautious steps closer. It's not a large roof, and a moment later he's close enough that he might even be able to catch the program if he tries to run. He can't see a face through the impenetrable back helmet, but he recognizes the blue lights and circuits from the action figure on his shelf.

He's seen them in red, too, but he feels no fear at the thought.

"Tron," he says. He knows he's not looking at Rinzler, but the name he uses still makes the program in front of him flinch.

"You've been following me," Sam says. Tron doesn't turn to face him more fully. He stares off to the side, as though the jittering horizon is more fascinating than Sam.

"You needed protecting," says Tron. His voice comes out a familiar, muffled hiss through the helmet. "You've been imprudent."

"You're right," says Sam, risking another step forward. He's almost close enough to reach forward and touch Tron's arm now. "Thank you," he says, "for keeping me out of trouble."

Tron _does_ look at him then, head cocked to the side. He doesn't seem to have anything further to say.

"I need your help," Sam says in a rush. It feels ridiculous once he hears it out loud. Tron has already been helping him. He wouldn't be standing here otherwise. But Sam needs more than a distant bodyguard. He needs a partner. Someone who knows the Grid better than he does. Someone who knew his _father_ better than he did, who might have a chance of leading Sam the right direction.

He's not sure what he expects in response, but the calm, immediate, "No," seems way off its mark.

"What do you mean _no_?" Sam gapes.

Tron is still and silent for a long moment. He's motionless for so long that Sam startles when the program's helmet begins to retract.

He startles again an instant later, when he sees the face revealed as the helmet vanishes into the collar of Tron's armor.

It's rude to stare, but Sam can't help it. This is too surreal.

"Are you all right?" Tron asks him, brow furrowing.

"I'm. Yes, I'm fine. I just." He stops, collects himself, shakes his head. "You look like Alan." Sort of. Sam never knew an Alan who looked as young as this. Programs don't age the same way Users do, Sam gets that, but if he had to place Tron's age in human years he would guess Tron is barely older than Sam himself.

"You know Alan-One?" Tron asks tightly.

"Yes," says Sam. "He's a good friend." Understatement of the century. The man is more than a friend, he's family, but Sam doesn't know how to say that out loud.

Tron falls silent again, watching Sam with a blankness that makes Sam's skin itch.

"Why won't you help me?"

Tron looks away then, and Sam can see an unhappy tick in his jaw, an anxious swallow, and he knows the blankness is an act. Whatever's going on in Tron's head right now, it's not pleasant, and he obviously doesn't want to share with the class.

He doesn't need to share. Sam can imagine well enough. He knows what Clu made Tron into, and if the security program remembers half the things he did as Rinzler—

"Because it's not safe for you to be near me," Tron says, interrupting Sam's bleak train of thought.

Sam stares, caught off guard by the confession.

"That's crazy," he says. "My dad told me all about you, man. I know what you can do."

"Exactly," says Tron. "You know what I can do." He's still avoiding Sam's eyes. His poker face is crumbling around the edges.

"I don't follow."

"I've almost killed you three times, Sam Flynn."

"You've—… Tron, come on, we both know that wasn't you."

"Wasn't it?" Tron's gaze finds him, sharp and piercing, and Sam feels frozen beneath the intensity of the look. "Clu didn't repurpose me. I'd have been no different from his other security drones if he had."

"Then how?" Sam asks, suddenly confused.

"He corrupted my programming." The blankness on Tron's face has melted completely away now, and the expression in his eyes is agony. "He broke it apart piece by piece until he got what he wanted."

"Rinzler," Sam breathes. "But you fought him. You found your way back. I mean… _look_ at you. You're right here. You've been protecting me."

"That proves nothing," Tron growls. He stares at the ground between them for long moments, visibly shaken. Finally he says, "I am _damaged_ , Sam Flynn. I can't promise I won't hurt you."

Sam considers the possibility. He knows better than to reject it out of hand. This isn't just guilt talking. If Clu took Tron apart and rebuilt him the way the picture is forming in Sam's mind, then it's a marvel Tron managed to fight his way back at all. There's no telling how deep the damage runs, or how reliable Tron's true personality will be now that it's resurfaced.

But Sam can't do this alone. So he steps forward, closing the distance between them and clasping a hand on Tron's shoulder. Tron raises his eyes, surprised, and Sam forces his own expression into something lighter, something a little more like a smile.

"Let me worry about that, okay?" he says. "And how about just calling me Sam?"

Tron stares at him for a long moment. The air feels taut and electric, and Sam is terrified the program will still say no. He's not sure what he'll do, then. Probably continue on the way he has been, stumbling around in the dark and trusting his ominous guardian angel to fish him out of trouble at the last minute.

But finally Tron nods, and Sam's smile turns a little more genuine.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam finishes the last of his recoding for the sector, and there are still no curious programs turning up to investigate. It looks like his plan to hide these particular repairs behind an even taller wall of damage was a successful ploy.

He's tired again. He pushed himself too hard in his relief at finally having Tron at his side. But he's still on his feet when Tron hands him a blue, glowing vial. Sam swallows the liquid gratefully, and instantly feels better.

"We should find somewhere out of sight for you to rest," says Tron. "You've overexerted yourself again."

"There's a stable stretch of quarters in Gamma Sector," says Sam. He knows because he's been avoiding Gamma Sector. Not enough damage to be a high priority, not quite isolated enough for his dad to seek refuge in one of the intact domiciles. 

Sam is becoming more and more certain that his father—if he's even still alive—is hiding off-Grid. But there's still so much damage to repair here, and Sam doesn't know where to look.

Gamma Sector isn't far. They travel quickly. 

When they reach their destination, Sam leads the way into a tall building and seals the door behind them. No one will be actively looking for them here, but why take the chance?

He feels heavy-limbed and sleepy by the time they step into an actual apartment on the third floor. He spares a moment to think, ' _Huh, guess computer programs_ do _sleep_ ' as he tosses aside his cloak, collapses onto a wide, soft bed and closes his eyes. 

The mattress dips beside him, and then Sam is out, dreaming of jet walls and motorcycles and his father's sad, smiling face.

\- — - — - — - — -

Tron is beside him when he wakes. Not asleep, but not watching him either. Tron sits with his back to the wall at the head of the bed, his legs crossed comfortably and his eyes on the broad window that runs floor to ceiling beside them.

"Good morning," Sam mumbles. He scrubs at his eyes but doesn't sit up. He feels too good right where he is.

"There is no 'morning' on the grid, Sam," Tron says. 

If Sam didn't know better, he'd think the program was teasing him. But Tron's face remains impassive, his attention focused elsewhere. 

Sam wonders if Tron slept, or if he's been keeping watch this entire time.

He wonders if Tron even _needs_ to sleep, or if his programming renders the concept moot. He knows Tron is no ordinary program. Maybe some of the rules simply don't apply.

"Do you have a plan?" Tron asks abruptly, and Sam blinks up at his somber profile.

He wants to answer in the affirmative. He wants to be able to justify himself, declare his intentions, point at a spot on the horizon and say, _that's_ where we're going.

But the truth is, he's got no fucking idea, and even if he thought he could get away with deception, he knows he won't lie to Tron.

"No," he admits. "I'm just… Trying to figure out the right thing to do."

"But you _are_ here to repair the Grid," Tron presses, eyes distant.

"Yes," says Sam. Even if it wasn't his original intent, he knows what he has to do. But he also knows he can't lose sight of his true purpose, and he says, "And to find Dad."

Tron turns on him sharply, eyes wide and mouth open in a startled, soundless gasp. 

"Flynn is _alive_?" Tron whispers. There's so much hope in his voice that Sam instantly feels like an asshole.

"I don't know," he answers quickly. Tron's face shutters, and Sam thinks he sees embarrassment next to the pain in the program's eyes. "But I need to find out. If he's in here somewhere, I can't lose him just because I didn't look hard enough. I need to be sure."

Tron nods, quiet comprehension, and says, "He won't be easy to find. And if we fail, you may never be truly sure."

"At least I'll have tried," Sam says. His gut twists unpleasantly at the possibility of failure. He hates the idea of not _knowing_ , even more than he hates the thought of learning that nothing of his father is left. 

"What next, then?" Tron asks. He looks so focused and determined, so intent, that again Sam finds himself floored by the familiarity of those features. It's like listening to Alan ask what he's doing with his life all over again, except for how it's completely different. Tron is wound so tightly with guilt that Sam can see it in every movement of his lithe frame. This program is nothing like the man Sam knows in the world above.

"Dad's not in the city," Sam says. It's the most certain he's ever felt, and even as he says the words he's hoping Tron will contradict him.

"No," Tron agrees instead. "He's not."

"The Outlands, then?" Sam asks. He sits up belatedly, scooting back to sit beside Tron. "Do you know where he might hide?"

Tron visibly thinks it through, mouth pressing into a thin line of concentration, but finally he shakes his head.

"He had several shelters before Clu took power, but they've all been destroyed. And he wouldn't return to the home in the cliffs. Not now that the location has been compromised."

Sam blinks in surprise. He hadn't realized his father's long term hiding place had been discovered.

"Then where do we start?" Sam asks. 

It's not fair of him. He's supposed to be the one with the plan. But he's been on the Grid for days and he feels just as lost as before. Plus there's a tiny corner of his chest, worn out and beaten down from taking care of himself alone for so damn long, that still feels a hint of hero worship for the program sitting beside him. 

This is _Tron_. He defeated the Master Control Program on the old Grid. He was a hero on this one. Just because Sam is grown now doesn't mean he's forgotten his dad's stories.

"For now, I think you should do exactly what you have been," says Tron, not letting Sam down. "If he's out there, he must be watching the city. If he sees what you're doing, maybe he'll find a way to contact _you_."

Sam hadn't thought of that. The idea lights a tight, dangerous spark of hope in his chest.

"Let's get back to work, then," he says, scrambling off the bed and heading for the door.

"Sam," Tron's voice calls from behind him.

Sam turns, confused, and barely reacts in time to catch his cloak as it comes unfolded, flying through the air towards him.

"Right," he says, smiling sheepishly as he dons the dark fabric. "Thanks." 

This time when he moves for the door, Tron follows.

\- — - — - — - — -

He only gets a third of the way through reconstructing Theta Sector. They have to move on before he's finished, in order to avoid unwanted attention.

Too visible a portion of the skyline, Sam supposes. Plus, by now the rest of the city knows something is going on. Even with the portal closed and the beacon invisible—until Quorra reopens it for the first repetition—they have to know he's here. There's no other explanation for the changes. Only a User can do the things he's doing.

So when curious, searching programs come to investigate before Sam's work is complete, Tron cuts him off.

"But I'm almost finished with the—"

"No," says Tron, and Sam is startled at the grim authority in his voice. "We can't be sure of their intentions. You won't be able to finish _anything_ if they catch you and it turns out they mean you harm."

But there's something reassuring about the way Sam feels at following Tron's advice—Tron's _orders_ , really. It drives home the point that he's not in this alone anymore.

They ride their Lightcycles in the opposite direction from the approaching crowd. Whichever way they go, Sam knows, there's inevitably more work to be done.

\- — - — - — - — -

In Sigma Sector they don't make it out fast enough.

There are programs on the Grid who would support Sam. He hasn't ventured into the city often. Tron refuses to accompany him into the most heavily populated areas, and Sam finds he doesn't like the time spent apart from his shadow. But Sam's been back to listen for information. Mostly he comes away empty-handed.

But he knows there are more and more programs giving in to hope. He knows there are some that never gave up, and more that are coming around as portions of the city thought lost forever mysteriously re-solidify. 

The group surrounding them now clearly doesn't run with that crowd. They're threatening, and they're numerous, and they're closing in on Sam and Tron in the middle of a wide, circular pavilion at the base of a tertiary relay tower. 

"Can't we talk about this?" Sam says, addressing the bald, bulky program that seems to be in charge. 

The program sneers, already reaching for the disc at his back. Sam can feel Tron edging closer behind him. Tron hasn't drawn his own discs yet, but they can't be far from that juncture.

"No more false promises, User," the program growls, and then everyone is moving at once. There are twelve attackers, and even wrapped up in the system as he is, Sam can't keep track of all of them at once. He ducks and rolls, barely dodging the disc that swings past his shoulder and boomerangs back to someone's waiting hand.

His own disc is in his hand an instant later, and he hurls it as he leaps to his feet and runs for cover—aiming himself at one of half a dozen tall pillars lining the pavilion's north wall. He hears the crinkling shatter of a program derezzing, then he has to duck aside again, stumbling as a disc hits the pillar just above his head. The impact sends electrified shards raining down on him. 

He whirls, catches a glimpse of his attacker, and throws his disc. A fractured scream fades to static and the program scatters to pieces along the ground.

Sam finally scrambles behind the pillar and listens for the sounds of battle. More programs derez, one after another. Sam has lost count now. He doesn't know how many are left, and he peers around the base of the pillar, trying to get his bearings.

Tron is facing off against two programs. A third is sneaking up behind him. 

Sam doesn't know if Tron is aware of the danger (probably), but he's already darting from his hiding place, running across the smooth floor and throwing his disc before that third program can make her attack. The program deflects, and Sam tries again. Again his disc is deflected.

He keeps running, closing in fast, and when the program raises her arm to meet him with an attack, Sam drops to the ground and slides, his momentum carrying him forward. He whips his disc straight up and catches his opponent through the middle. 

The program derezzes on top of him as Sam slides to a stop. He scrambles to his feet, brushing away the scattered particles of raw data.

He finds Tron standing motionless. The other two programs are gone. Tron's back is to Sam, his posture rigid as his helmet retracts. His hands clasp tightly around his discs, still active and whirring with power.

"Tron?" Sam ventures, taking a step towards him.

Tron whirls at the sound of his name. His expression is dark and focused and terrifyingly empty. High on his chest are four small panels of light (the letter 'T', Sam always thinks) that normally shine the same bright, unmistakable blue as the rest of the circuits in his armor.

At the moment, those four panels are flickering red. Sam freezes where he stands. 

"Woah," he says, and raises his hands in what he hopes is a peaceable gesture. He carefully replaces his own disc on his back, then holds his hands palm-out and waits.

Tron's attention is calculating, and his grip tightens on both of his discs as his body settles into a casual, battle-ready stance. 

"Fuck," Sam breathes. Then, because it can't hurt if Tron is about to kick his ass anyway, he says, "Come on, man, don't flip out on me now. You fight _for_ the Users, remember? Not _against_ them."

The moment feels endless. Sam's stomach tightens into an unhappy knot, and his fingers itch to reach for a weapon. But he stands perfectly still, and finally Tron blinks—shakes himself—and as awareness seeps back into his eyes, he drops his discs to the ground.

The panels at his throat flicker once more, then go back to their standard blue.

Sam moves forward quickly then, putting himself in Tron's space before he can think better of it. Tron's arm is tense beneath his hand when Sam reaches out to touch, and Tron is already trying to turn away, won't even _look_ at him, and god, this is horrible.

"Don't do this," says Sam without thinking, giving Tron a shake. 

"I'm sorry," Tron says, hands balling into fists at his sides. "I'm. I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"It's okay," Sam says. "You're still with me, and you _didn't_ try to hurt me, and it's okay." Tron warned him, after all. It's Sam's own fault for letting himself get caught off guard. 

Tron turns miserable eyes on him, and Sam is suddenly struck, for the first time in what feels like days, by how much he looks like Alan. Not that Sam has ever seen this particular expression on Alan's face: guilt and regret running so deep there's no space for anything else. He's seen Alan sad plenty of times—sad and trying to hide it—but never anything like this.

"Stop it," Sam whispers.

Tron looks at him sharply, surprised and uncertain. His mouth is a thin, unhappy line and his eyes are dark with confusion. 

"Stop what?" Tron asks. He doesn't pull away. Sam doesn't take his hand back, either.

"Stop doing this to yourself. This… martyr complex thing. I can't imagine what you went through, but you can't let it eat you like this. I need you."

He knows he's being selfish. That doesn't mean he's wrong. 

"I've done terrible things, Sam Flynn."

" _Rinzler_ did terrible things," Sam says, squeezing Tron's arm to emphasize his point. "And I told you to call me Sam."

Tron's expression lightens fractionally, though Sam can tell it's unwilling. His words are getting through, however grudgingly, and much as Tron might not want to hear them, he's clearly processing the things Sam is saying. 

"Still," says Tron. "Perhaps you should distance yourself from me for the time being."

"No way," says Sam. "Come on. We probably won't have this place to ourselves much longer. I'm just going to finish up the wall on the south corner, and then we'll go."

Sam retrieves Tron's discs from the ground at their feet, and hands them back with an ease he very nearly feels.

\- — - — - — - — -

They work their way through the sectors in an unpredictable path, and eventually Tron's refusal to enter the populated city becomes moot.

The city comes to them.

There are still some areas so damaged that even the most curious, ambitious programs won't venture into them, but elsewhere he and Tron need to move carefully. They do a lot of skulking, a lot of staying out of sight in dark alleys and vacant side streets. 

Perl finds them once. He offers them weapons—light batons and pulse grenades—and when Sam asks what he wants in exchange, he simply smiles and disappears into the crowd. Sam suspects Tron could track and catch him if asked, but he doesn't bother asking.

"Who was he?" Tron asks as they navigate a noisy corner. They're both hidden in dark cloaks now, patches of light at the shoulders and hems of the fabric.

"An ally," says Sam. He wouldn't venture so far as to call the program a friend. 

Sam hands most of the weapons over to Tron. he knows damn well which of them will make better use of the extra ammunition.

"Wait here," Tron tells him at the next corner. He vanishes without warning, gone so quickly Sam doesn't even know which direction he's disappeared, and Sam rolls his eyes and leans against an inconspicuous wall. There's no point doing anything besides waiting while Tron runs off to get whatever he's after (power, information, maybe a spare light stick to replace the one he lost in a fight a millicycle ago). 

There's plenty to watch here, anyway. For all that this sector has only been intact for a matter of days (4 or 5 millicycles if Sam's calculations are reliable), it's filled quickly with the spontaneous bustle of activity and Grid life.

There's some kind of vibrant club across the street, nameless and bright. Sam watches programs come and go, laughing and glowing and leaning on each others' arms. One couple in particular emerges and catches his eye. They seem more intimate than the other pairs that have moved through this space, more intent, and Sam's pretty sure he recognizes the looks they're exchanging. 

Instead of disappearing down the street, the two settle into a dark, shadowed corner. Sam doesn't mean to watch, but curiosity keeps his attention riveted as the two slide close. He'd guess the programs are male and female, if he had to make that call, but he's honestly not sure. It doesn't particularly matter, either, and he watches fascinated as the shorter program slides slim fingers over her companion's broad chest. Yellow-lit corners of circuitry light beneath the touch, squares of light on the program's shoulder brightening as they're pressed almost like buttons.

It's impossible to hear anything from this far away, but from the look on the taller program's face, Sam can imagine the sounds coming out of his mouth.

"It's not polite to stare," Tron's voice murmurs in his ear. Sam starts guiltily and then turns to glare at him.

"It's not my fault they decided to bring their… whatever this is… out in public." He cuts his eyes to the side again, sees the two shifting together. It looks like they're trying to merge into one mutual body, however unsuccessfully. "Is that how programs do it?"

"Do what?" Tron asks, and if Sam didn't know better he'd swear the security program was teasing him. He chances a look at Tron and decides it's a remarkably real possibility. 

"Get intimate," Sam says, not to be deterred. "Express romantic affection. Whatever you want to call it." 

"It's one way," says Tron noncommittally.

"They're not kissing," Sam observes, returning his attention to the now frantic couple. 

"No," says Tron, again aggravatingly noncommittal. "They aren't. That's… not really something programs do. Come, we should find ourselves a less populated area if our business is done." 

Sam follows him down the street, around a corner, towards a low-sweeping overpass where they can get out of sight and switch from foot travel to Lightcycles.

"Hey," Sam says, a thought occurring to him as they move from one shadow to the next. "If programs don't kiss, why do you even know what the word means?"

Tron regards him, a spark of genuine amusement in his eyes, and doesn't respond.

"Have _you_ ever kissed anyone?" Sam asks. He's not sure why he's pressing the issue. It's sure as hell none of his business.

Tron smiles cryptically instead of responding, but the unspoken answer is unmistakable. Sam thinks this through for a moment before a more startling idea hits him.

"Oh god, it wasn't my dad, was it?"

Tron laughs at that. He _laughs_. The sound is light and warm, and it does something to Sam's insides. He can't stop staring at the way Tron's face contorts with the sound, bright smile twisting his mouth into a grin. The expression leaves no room for the harsh guilt that usually lurks just beneath the surface.

Tron sobers marginally, perhaps at other thoughts of Kevin Flynn, but the amused hint of a smile is slow to fade as he turns sparkling eyes on Sam.

"No," he says. "It was a program named Yori, from the old system. She couldn't come with us to the new Grid, but she was… important to me."

Sam absorbs that information. He takes in Tron's wistful smile and wishes they weren't nearly at their out-of-sight destination. He'd really like to continue this conversation. He wants to know about Yori and what she meant to Tron, and Lightcycles make a shitty location for discourse.

But he has another moment, however brief, and so even though he knows he's prying he says, "So you and she were…"

"Intimate," Tron says with a knowing look. 

Sam grins, and then they're beneath the overpass and there's nothing to do but move.

\- — - — - — - — -

They return to Theta Sector just as the beacon reactivates, and Sam knows Tron catches sight of it the same instant he does.

He feels the security program's eyes on him, watchful and quiet, and he swallows past a sudden tightness in his throat.

"Does this mean you have to leave?" Tron asks. His tone is carefully neutral. Sam can sense worry and expectation in his stare.

Sam thinks about it. He could go topside again. He could return to the computer screen, go back to the scrolling lines of text and trying to reconstruct all that destroyed data from the outside. He could step away from all this—from the danger, the broken society full of disillusioned programs, the attacks that come whenever he and Tron are caught out by the wrong kind of crowd. 

"No," he says decisively. "Not yet." This is only the first sequence. "Quorra will give me two more chances before she calls in the big guns. I'll take the next ride out, see how things look then."

He knows he still won't want to go. Time passes so quickly down here. The thought of stepping back into the real world, of wasting so much time when he could be mending, building, searching for his father with Tron… it leaves Sam feeling lost.

Tron relaxes at Sam's answer, palpable relief loosening the tension from his shoulders. When Sam turns, he finds the program looking at him strangely. There's something indecipherable in Tron's eyes—something sharp and intent and shadowed. 

Tron blinks it away quickly, as though Sam caught out some secret, and turns his attention towards the horizon.

\- — - — - — - — -

They have to dodge attacks more frequently as the city grudgingly reforms beneath Sam's hands.

While the denizens of the Grid seem to be settling back into the restructured space as easily as water in a basin, a worrisome portion of the population remains skeptical and angry. They've organized, is the worst part. They must be watching the skyline now, looking for the User in their midst, and if Sam and Tron linger too long in any one place they find themselves penned in.

Sometimes they don't even need to linger. One sweep, one building. It must be a lucky guess that has their attackers closing in on them those times. 

But Sam's getting better at fighting. It doesn't hurt that Tron has taken to training him in some of their quieter moments of downtime, when Sam is focusing on regaining his power reserves by _not_ mucking around in complex Grid code. 

And Tron is… well… Tron. 

So far they've cut it close a few times, but they've made it out of every confrontation unscathed.

"Why can't they just accept that I'm trying to help?" Sam grumbles, angry at being ousted before he finished solidifying the base of an expansive bridge. He watched the bridge crumble while they were forced to retreat. 

He kicks a stone, smooth-edged and black, and drops himself dejectedly to the ground. 

They're safe here. The terrain in this sector is just unstable enough to dissuade the wary and reckless alike.

"They've lost faith," says Tron, sitting beside him in a movement far more graceful than Sam's. "Can you blame them, considering?"

Sam sighs, thumping his head against a smooth wall at his back. 

"Okay, so they're not happy a User is around changing the landscape. Considering Clu's propaganda, I get why it makes them nervous. But seriously, couldn't they let me fix everything and _then_ try to kill me? You'd think a restored city would be a _good_ thing."

"They resent that they couldn't rebuild it themselves," Tron says.

Sam hadn't considered that angle. 

He sighs again, then slumps to the side. His head lands on Tron's shoulder, and Sam slouches, the glow of Tron's circuits tingeing his peripheral vision blue. Tron's shoulder shifts but doesn't dislodge him, and Sam appreciates that the program is giving him his moment to sulk.

"You're doing good here, Sam," Tron reassures him unexpectedly. "Don't let them make you forget that." 

"You promise?" Sam murmurs.

"I do," says Tron. 

When he says it that way, Sam finds it impossible not to believe.

\- — - — - — - — -

Tron keeps making him train, even after Sam starts to feel downright proficient with his disc, and his light baton, and the other arsenal of incredibly portable weapons that fit so easily into the nooks and crannies of the User attire he stubbornly continues to wear.

"We should find you something less conspicuous," Tron admonishes him repeatedly.

"That's what the Jedi robe is for," Sam answers every time.

Tron never asks what a Jedi is. It's one of a hundred references Tron doesn't bother to make him clarify. 

But Tron trains him, and though Sam gripes about it on principal, he finds he doesn't mind. There's a constant challenge to it. He'll never best Tron, not at flat-out combat. But as he improves, Sam can hold his own longer and longer, ducking and dodging and evading as Tron tries to pin him. Their limbs dance around each other in constant attack and retreat, and every match has one inevitable conclusion.

Tron pins him every time, and Sam finds he doesn't mind that either, though he tries not to delve too deeply into questions of just why that is.

"You're improving," Tron tells him once. He kneels over Sam, holding both of Sam's wrists pinned above his head with one hand and brandishing one of his discs at Sam's exposed throat.

There's no true threat to the posture, but he doesn't release Sam immediately. Sam can't help feeling like Tron is trying to drive some point home. Some lesson yet unaccomplished, some wisdom not yet imparted.

What other explanation is there for the way Tron is still holding him down? 

What rationale does Sam himself have for not trying to shake him off now that their match is concluded?

"But not enough," Sam guesses, wrists twisting in Tron's unyielding hold. 

Tron releases him abruptly, rocks back on his heels and gets suddenly to his feet, leaving Sam to wonder if he said something wrong. The sudden retreat is unexpected, and Sam stands uncertainly.

"Are you okay?" he asks. Tron's circuits flash brighter than normal for a moment, then even out as Tron turns and regards him with a cryptic look.

"Yes," Tron answers simply.

"Okay…," Sam flounders for a moment. "Do you want to try that again, or have you kicked my ass enough times for the day?"

Tron stares at him, then shakes his head and says, "We should move. You have more important things to accomplish than this."

\- — - — - — - — -

The next attack comes almost like clockwork. Their opponents' numbers are many, but for Sam and Tron the fight goes down almost as if choreographed.

Sam takes out his share of the attacking programs (roughly a fifth of them, he'd guess). He loses track of Tron in the process, but he's not worried. He focuses on his own fight, on keeping his balance solid and his disc slicing through the air at all the correct angles for maximum damage.

He spares a brief thought for the guilt he should feel, wiping so many programs out of existence. His father created these individuals, no matter how broken they've become, and Sam is derezzing them left and right.

But it's a question of survival. Sam can't afford to entertain such thoughts. They'll only distract him from what needs to be done.

When the ground before him is littered with shattered pixels and the air around him is nearly silent, Sam straightens and puts his disc away, taking a deep, calming breath.

That's when he first hears the low, steady purr of sound behind him.

Purr isn't exactly the right word. It's not natural enough for that, doesn't sound anything like the sound an animal would make, especially not a contented cat. It's more like the uneven grinding of broken code, and Sam realizes he knows that sound.

He turns cautiously and finds Tron watching him.

Tron's helmet isn't up, which means Sam has an unimpeded view of the predatory weight darkening the program's eyes. Tron holds a single disc, his two weapons combined back into one. He stands ready but not quite poised to attack.

Every light panel and circuit on Tron's body glows red.

"Fuck," Sam says. 

He tries to go for his own disc when Tron (Rinzler) moves. But the security program is too fast, and Sam is too limited and human, and so he goes down hard instead, landing awkwardly on his back and hitting his head on the unyielding ground.

Rinzler pins him so easily that Sam feels like he's back in that damn arena, helpless and useless and inexperienced. It makes him wonder if Tron's been going deliberately easy on him in all those training drills.

Sam feels the bright, vibrating edge of Tron's disc at his throat, and he forces himself to hold completely still. 

Tron's eyes aren't empty this time, but the vivid, violent glint Sam finds there instead is almost worse. He wonders if it's the stress of battle triggering this response—a kind of bloodlust—violence overflowing and reawakening the damaged pieces of code still wound through Tron's system. 

"Tron." He says it softly. It earns him no response. "Tron, come on, I know you're still in there." Again no response. But the disc cuts no closer, and Sam feels brave enough to shift beneath Tron's weight, looking for any hint of weakness that might let him escape.

Tron's brows knit at the movement, and Sam stills again. Tron's hand goes from nearly crushing his arm to tracing a line of light on Sam's jacket. It's one of the fake panels of circuitry Sam added for camouflage when he first set foot on the shore outside the city. God, that was an eternity ago. 

The touch feels more curious than threatening, despite the fact that the weapon in Tron's other hand hasn't dropped. Sam suddenly becomes aware of the weight of Tron's body in a completely different way, and his eyes widen as Tron's exploring hand slides lower—down his chest, towards his stomach.

It's possible this isn't what he thought.

If nothing else, Tron looks too distracted to do him immediate violence right now, and Sam risks reaching for Tron's other arm. He traces careful fingers down the contours of armor and sleeve, brushes his thumb across a slim panel of light on the underside of Tron's wrist. Tron's whole body shudders at the contact. When Sam urges Tron's fingers to loosen and drop the disc, Tron obeys unthinkingly, and Sam immediately tosses the weapon out of range.

Tron doesn't even flinch when it clatters to the ground nearby.

" _Tron_ ," Sam says, though the sharpness of his voice earns him no response. "I don't even know if you can hear me right now, but you need to come back. You can't just check out on me. Not like this." ' _Not ever_ ,' he thinks stubbornly. He's not even sure he remembers how to function without the security program by his side.

It's only been a matter of weeks. Three of them, Grid time, though it's hard to keep track of something as mundane as days in this world of black clouds and empty skies, where sleep comes in sporadic bursts and time passes in millicycles. 

Sam is just starting to give up hope when Tron blinks. His circuits flicker briefly, blue then back to red, and a wash of confusion settles over his face.

"Tron," Sam says again. "Get it together, man, we have to get out of here before more of them come." More won't be coming. Not this quickly. But they still need to move, and the urgency in Sam's voice seems to finally be getting through. Blue light pulses sporadically, arrhythmically, and eventually overtakes the red. 

Finally it's just Tron staring down at him, mortified and frozen. It occurs to Sam that their positions are a little compromising.

This whole _situation_ is a little compromising, he thinks, face flushing slightly. Their physical positions aren't anything particularly new.

"Sam," says Tron, finally snapping out of it enough to let his eyes rake Sam up and down, obviously checking for injuries. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," says Sam, and now he's holding still for different reasons. "You wanna let me up, maybe? So we can get going?"

Tron scrambles away so quickly Sam might feel insulted if his head weren't still spinning.

He gets to his feet and surveys the surrounding damage, already trying to decide where to head next.

A few feet away, Tron retrieves his disc.


	3. Chapter 3

The attacks become more frequent as Sam's work progresses.

Rinzler emerges more frequently, too, until his appearances are so regular Sam's got a whole script in his head now—a list of ways to talk Tron down from the edge and prevent him from landing that killing blow.

The downside is that he's starting to lose the urgent sense of fear that used to accompany such moments. Without fear leaving him cold, Sam's got nothing to distract him from the way he feels with Tron pinning him to the ground—strong hands and sturdy limbs holding Sam down and commanding him to be still. 

Sam is starting to enjoy those sensations more than he should, despite the guilt he always sees in Tron's eyes after. He's starting to look up at Tron in those moments and, Alan Bradley's face or not, wonder what would happen if Sam went off script and simply kissed Tron. Would Rinzler snap and finally kill him? Would he do something else entirely? Sam tries not to let his mind wander too far down that path.

He _can't_ make a move on Tron. And he definitely can't make a move on Rinzler. He's stuck, and he knows it.

Tron always feels guilty in the moments that follow, never mind that he's never actually harmed Sam. There's always an instant before Tron manages to put his poker face back on, when Sam can see guilt and fear glinting in the program's eyes. Sam's own confidence that the surfacing Rinzler program won't hurt him isn't enough to reassure Tron. Even if it were, the fact that his code is fluctuating so extremely can't be a good sign.

They've gotten to safety again, left an ugly fight and one more close call behind them, when Tron shocks him by saying, "You could reprogram me."

Sam turns disbelieving eyes on the security program, and his chest tightens unhappily. He wonders, for a split second, if Tron has any concept what he's suggesting. Then the look on Tron's face makes him realize that yes, Tron knows exactly what he's saying. He must genuinely see no other alternative.

"Tron, I can't do that," says Sam, though what he means is ' _won't_ ' and they both know it.

They're sitting in what looks, to Sam's User eyes, like a VIP room in some kind of office building. There's an enormous desk in one corner, tall sturdy chairs throughout the room. Narrow couches beneath windows that line two walls, which is where Sam and Tron have settled. But now Sam stands, fidgety and unhappy, and doesn't resist the urge to pace.

"You're a User," Tron says, watching him from the other couch. "You _can_ do it." He pauses, then says more softly, "I'm asking you to do it."

Sam sighs, runs a hand through his hair then drops his arm to his side. Tron has called him out. Sam can't just blow him off.

He turns to face Tron, and it feels like a battle of wills. A messy staring contest. 

"Fine," he says. "I can do it. That doesn't mean it's a good idea." Tron already looks poised to protest, and Sam holds up a hand to delay him. "Tron, I don't even know what your uncorrupted code _looks_ like. If I do what you're asking, you might not even be _you_ anymore when I finish."

Tron is silent at that. He seems to be genuinely considering Sam's protests. But there's still a steely look in his eyes, a determined glint that tells Sam this conversation isn't over yet. 

Tron stands, then. Fluid and smooth. There's so much natural grace in the program's movements that sometimes Sam feels overwhelmed just watching him. He approaches steadily, then stops before Sam, standing close enough that Sam realizes they're almost the exact same height.

"Please," Tron says quietly. "You know it's getting worse."

"No," Sam insists, and his chest feels tight. "I can't lose you like that, man. What the fuck am I supposed to do with some new program who looks and sounds like you but isn't _you_?" 

But Tron doesn't relent.

"If my alternative is doing you harm? Then I don't see any choice."

Sam suddenly feels nauseous, but he realizes he can't keep refusing. What right does he have, regardless of the danger to himself, when Tron's identity might be steadily losing ground to Rinzler? Sam can't let him revert to Clu's monster if there's something he can do to prevent it.

But what if he fucks it up? What if he loses Tron anyway?

"I've only repaired Grid structures since I got in here," Sam whispers. "I've never touched an actual program's code. What if I get it wrong?"

Tron's face softens then, and after a moment's hesitation he touches Sam's arm, fingers a reassuring press around Sam's bicep.

"You won't," he says. 

Sam's not so sure. 

Another thought occurs to him, then. One that makes his stomach stop twisting into such tight knots.

"Do you think you can hold out a little longer?" he asks. 

Tron's face darkens into a skeptical expression, and he cocks his head to one side. 

"It' just," Sam flounders for a moment. "Quorra will be reopening the portal, soon. It will be the second time. Out there I have other resources. I have _Alan_." And Christ, won't _that_ be awkward on a whole new level, but Sam's not thinking about that right now.

"Alan-One would have access to my original program," Tron realizes aloud. 

"Exactly!" Sam exclaims. He grabs Tron by the arms, holds on, feeling suddenly lightheaded with relief. "It won't be exactly the same. I'm sure Dad made all kinds of modifications over the years, but… If I can see the original template, maybe I can pull the corrupted data without poking any extra holes in your code."

Tron considers. His eyes drop to where Sam is still touching him, then rise to take in Sam's hopeful expression.

"I think I can wait that long," says Tron.

Sam finally smiles.

\- — - — - — - — -

The beacon lights a matter of millicycles after that, and Tron flies beside Sam over the Sea of Simulation. There's no platform beneath the portal—probably shattered with the force of Reintigration—and Sam has to code literally on the fly so that they have somewhere to land.

Sam hands Tron his light stick after they collapse their jets, and says, "I'll be back as quickly as I can." 

He wonders if he should try and give a time estimate, if he should apologize for how long it will take him to return even if he completes his business quickly. 

His hesitation must show on his face, because Tron gives him a quiet smile and says, "I understand the limitations of time between our worlds, Sam. You don't have to explain yourself to me. I'll wait for your return, however long it takes."

For some reason the words make Sam feel lightheaded. He returns Tron's smile with only a brief delay and then claps him on the arm.

"What will you do in the meantime?"

"Patrol," says Tron. "Listen. The anti-User segments of the population seem to be growing more coordinated. Perhaps I can learn something useful in your absence."

"You'll have to go into the city proper for that," Sam points out, masking his worry in a teasing tone.

"I'll be careful," Tron says. 

"Meet me on the Eastern shore next time you see the beacon," Sam says.

He steps into the roaring column of light.

\- — - — - — - — -

Even though it's nighttime, the real world still feels bright and surreal after so much uninterrupted time on the Grid.

Sam guesses he spent something like 30 days down there in Grid time. Then, after asking Quorra what time it is (eleven p.m., technically still the same day he went in), he does the calculations and realizes he's not too far off. Quorra's been waiting for hours to reopen the portal at the pre-agreed time. 

"I was worried," she admits sheepishly, hugging him as soon as he's finished patting himself down to make sure everything's where it's supposed to be.

"Come on, Q, you knew I'd be coming back."

"I couldn't imagine you would need this long," she says. "When you didn't come back the first time I wondered if something went wrong."

"No," Sam reassures her, putting the computer in standby mode and grabbing his keys. "There's just a lot of work to do."

"Did you find him?" She asks it so carefully that it's obviously the first and most important question on her mind. 

"Not yet," Sam says, deflating a little. "But I'm not giving up. If he's in there, I'll find a way to track him down."

"You're not going back in _now_ , are you?" Quorra asks, looking surprised and disapproving.

"No," says Sam. "But soon. I've been repairing the Grid, and there's still a lot I need to do."

"You'll get some sleep first, then," Quorra says, looking relieved enough that Sam wonders just how ragged he looks. He certainly _feels_ exhausted now, wrung out physically in a way he didn't notice inside the computer. But he shakes his head.

"First I need to talk to Alan." It's unforgivably late on a Saturday. He'll probably be waking Alan up. But Sam feels an edgy impatience beneath his skin, and he knows Alan will forgive him. 

Quorra looks confused again, watching Sam with probing eyes.

"Why Alan?" she asks.

"Because Tron is helping me," says Sam, already aiming for the door. "And I need a favor."

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam is amazed to find the house still lit when he parks his bike at the top of Alan's long, steep driveway.

Quorra didn't accompany him. Someone had to feed Marvin, not to mention give the little guy some company.

Alan answers the doorbell on the first ring, and stares at Sam on his doorstep with an expression halfway between startled and terrified. It occurs to Sam, only belatedly, that considering Alan's history with the Flynns, Sam showing up at this hour is definitely cause for alarm.

He doesn't let the moment of guilt slow him down when Alan steps aside and lets Sam through the door. Sam steps past him into the wide, sweeping foyer. Alan looks rumpled and relaxed, shirt sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows, tie abandoned somewhere, stocking feet. 

"What can I do for you, Sam?" he asks. ' _What are you doing here at this hour_?' his eyes demand.

"I need a favor," says Sam. "A big favor. I'm sorry to bust in on you so late."

Alan scrutinizes him closely, hands in his pockets and eyes narrow, but finally his expression lightens and he shakes his head. He looks exasperated, but no longer scared, and Sam smiles when he sees Alan's eyes crinkle around the edges.

"Come on," says Alan, tilting his head towards the kitchen. "Let's have a beer and you can tell me about this favor."

Alan's fridge only houses the good stuff, and Sam takes a sip as he settles onto a stool, elbows braced on the tall island counter in the center of the kitchen. Alan settles in across from him, watching Sam expectantly.

Sam considers his options. He considers trying to make this sound anything less than crazy. Finally he decides his only choice is to dive right in.

"I need access to Tron," he says.

Alan blinks at him, wide-eyed and surprised (and obviously more confused than ever), then stares as though he's waiting for the punch-line. 

"Sam, you _own_ Encom. If you've got ideas about the game—"

"I'm not talking about the game," Sam interrupts. 

Alan stares at him for a moment, adjusts his glasses on his face, takes a sip of his drink. He seems to understand what Sam is asking, at least. Sam waits expectantly.

Finally Alan says, "What could you possibly want with an outdated security program?"

Sam flinches at the choice of words, but he forces his voice to stay light as he answers, "It's a long story."

At least _having_ this conversation isn't as surreal as he expected. Shared faces or not, apparently Alan and Tron have become such separate entities in Sam's mind that he has no trouble holding onto the distinction. It helps, if only a little.

Alan regards him carefully now, expression going guarded and closed, and Sam wonders if he said something wrong. 

"You've been doing great work at Encom," Alan says.

"Huh?" And now Sam feels like he took a wrong turn somewhere. But Alan is watching him with calm consideration. There's something inexplicably cautious in that look.

"You came in all gun's blazing," says Alan. "And you didn't let up. Everyone knows they have to take you seriously now. I think you've really got a shot at taking the company where it needs to go."

"Why are you telling me this?" Sam asks, taking an uncomfortable sip of his beer. Praise has never sat well on his shoulders, even coming from Alan. 

"Because I'm proud of you," Alan says. And then, expression going darker and a little bit embarrassed, "And because I'm worried."

"About me?"

"You've been strange these last few days," Alan says, avoiding his eyes. "Distracted. Distant. You've always been so much like your father, and—"

"Alan," Sam cuts him off. Waits until Alan stops fiddling with the label on his beer bottle and actually _looks_ at him. "I'm not going to disappear on you. I promise." 

Guilty relief shines on Alan's face. Silence settles between them, mostly uncomfortable, and Sam takes another swig of his beer, enjoying the texture of the drink as it slides down his throat. 

"Are you ever going to tell me what you found?" Alan asks into the silence.

Sam nearly spits out a mouthful of beer, but he manages to swallow it and ask, "What?"

"At the Arcade. Clearly it changed your mind about a lot of things. I've been… I didn't want to push you. I figured you'd tell me in your own time, but. Did he leave something behind for you?" Alan looks away again, but not quickly enough to keep Sam from noticing the hint of wetness in his eyes. "Did you figure out what happened to him?"

Guilt hits Sam like a semi, and he feels like the world's biggest asshole as he realizes how selfish he's been. He's kept what happened to himself for fear that no one will believe him, but Alan deserves better than that. Alan, who never gave up hope on Kevin Flynn. Who broke into Sam's apartment because he got a page from a number he still remembers after twenty years.

"Oh, Alan," he breathes, and hates the way it makes Alan's shoulders hunch. 

He's silent for a moment, lost in the magnitude of his mistake, but finally Sam says, "I'm sorry." And then, "Yeah, I figured out what happened to him. But you're not, in a million years, going to believe me."

Alan's eyes find him, finally. Wounded but stubborn. He's already rebuilding his defenses, shoring himself up for whatever information Sam has to impart. 

"If I promise to believe you, will you tell me?" 

"Sure," Sam says, forcing a smile. "I could use another beer first, though."

\- — - — - — - — -

He tells Alan nearly everything.

Even the crazy stuff (except who is he kidding, it's _all_ crazy). Human form into digital space. Lasers, Lightjets, programs wandering around looking so human Sam sometimes has to remind himself they're not.

He tells Alan about his father's plans for an epic gaming grid, and about the miracle that sidetracked him and made everything so much bigger. He tells Alan about Clu, about the program's betrayal, the genocide that followed, the closing of a portal that can only be activated from the outside.

He tells Alan bout the games themselves (disc wars, Lightcycles, an arena of screaming programs chanting to see him derezzed), and then about the hideout in the empty space beyond the city. Finding his father. Losing him scant hours later.

He doesn't realize he's crying until he feels Alan's hand on his wrist. The contact jolts Sam out of the foggy headspace of his narrative, makes him realize that his eyes are stinging and his cheeks are damp.

He sucks in a ragged breath, broaching a shaky smile, and says, "Still believe me?"

"Yes," Alan says without an instant's hesitation. "Though hell if I know what to make of it."

Sam even tells Alan about Quorra. The last ISO, his father's miracle.

"Haven't quite figured out what to do with her yet," he admits. "At the moment she's just an awesome roommate." 

"I knew there was something special about her," Alan says, chin propped in his hand.

"We're supposed to change the world," Sam says wistfully. "But I have other responsibilities first." 

"What kind of responsibilities?" Alan asks. He's gotten them both another round by now, and he considers Sam over his drink.

"The Grid's a shambles," Sam says. "The programs are lost right now. Broken, corrupted, fighting each other over limited resources. It's like stepping into a war zone."

"You've gone back in?" Alan asks, confused disapproval darkening his features.

"I'm fixing it," Sam says. "Without Dad, there's no one else to do it. It's not just a computer system, Alan. It's a whole society. They've been torn apart, and someone needs to make it right."

He doesn't mention his own lingering hopes, or the real reason he first set foot back on the Grid. He can't bear the thought of raising Alan's expectations and not being able to follow through. Bad enough that he faces the possibility of disappointment himself. He can't inflict the same on Alan. 

"That's why I need access to your Tron program," he says before Alan has a chance to read the hesitation on his face.

"So it can help you rebuild," Alan guesses.

"He's already helping me." Sam feels a smile threatening at the way the statement makes Alan gape. "Dad ported him over from the old Encom mainframe, back when he first started building the Grid. Tron found me pretty much the second I hit town." 

"Well," says Alan. "I'll be damned. I remember giving your dad a copy of the program. He never told me what it was for."

Sam stops suppressing his smile, and Alan shakes his head in disbelief.

"Then why do you need my old code?" Alan asks. "It's got to be outdated as hell by now. I'm sure your dad upgraded Tron hundreds of times on his new system."

Sam's face falls, and his gaze drops to the counter between them.

"Tron's code was corrupted when Clu took power. He was lost for… a long time." He doesn't mention Rinzler. For some reason that feels like too much of a betrayal. "He's back now, but he malfunctions sometimes. I don't want to go digging around in his root code without knowing what I'm looking at, but I have to do _something_ —"

"Hey, hey, easy." Sam hadn't even realized he was getting worked up, but Alan's admonition calms him down, pulls him back.

"I can't lose him, Alan," he says.

Alan looks perplexed more than anything—perplexed and worried—but he nods.

"You can see the code if you think it'll help. I have it backed up in at least three places."

"Thank you," says Sam. "Alan, thank you. Seriously. You're a life saver."

"Hard to believe one security program can make that much of a difference."

"Depends on the program," Sam says. His chest already feels lighter, his thoughts impatient, and without consciously meaning to he blurts, "Do you have it here?"

Alan barks a startled laugh, cut short when he realizes Sam is completely serious.

"What, right now?" Alan blinks at him, but Sam just waits. "Okay, sure. Come on up to my office. You can use my computer."

Sam leaves his beer bottle half finished on the counter and follows Alan upstairs.

\- — - — - — - — -

"You're not going back in tonight, are you?" Alan asks when he sees Sam to the door.

"I was thinking about it." Now that he's got what he came for, he sees no reason not to. He'd have gone straight back in after checking in with Quorra if he hadn't needed Alan's resources.

"Sam, you look wrecked. Can't it at least wait until morning?"

"I don't know if _I_ can wait that long," Sam admits. "There's so much to do down there, and sleep doesn't work quite the same way on the Grid."

Alan grunts, a noncommittal sound that still manages to convey disapproval. A moment later a different worry dampens his expression.

"What is it?" Sam asks, trepidation making his skin feel tight.

"Are you safe in there?"

"Sure," Sam lies. "I've got Tron, I've got my badass User skills. Nothing can touch me."

Alan looks skeptical, peering at Sam over the rims of his glasses.

"What if you get trapped inside?" Alan presses. ' _Like your father_ ,' he doesn't say.

Sam doesn't doubt his own disappearance would break the man's heart, but he's not lying when he says, "That won't happen."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I've got Quorra on the outside. She monitors Grid activity and activates the laser on a set schedule. If I don't check in, she's got instructions to call in reinforcements."

"Reinforcements," Alan deadpans. " _What_ reinforcements, Sam?"

Sam grins and says, "You, obviously." 

"You're insane," Alan informs him blandly.

"I know," says Sam. "It runs in the family." But he's gone and stepped in it again, because Alan's features shadow, his brow crinkling unhappily as his mouth presses into a thin line. Sam needs to fix this, and he opens his mouth, says, "Alan—"

"I want you to promise me something," Alan cuts him off. Sam waits quietly, and finally Alan continues, "Promise me you won't let yourself get lost in there. The real world needs you, Sam. And I will _not_ lose both of you to this thing."

Sam's breath lodges in his throat, and he nods. He can't bring himself to say the words out loud, but he'll never do that to Alan. It'd be a shitty way to repay him for everything he's done.

"Who knows," Sam says when he finds his voice again. "Maybe once I've got her put back together you'd like to see the Grid for yourself."

He leaves Alan's house, then. The door doesn't close behind him, and he can feel Alan's eyes following him all the way to his bike.

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam doesn't want to waste real-world time sleeping when he could be accomplishing more important tasks on the Grid, but in the end he follows Alan's advice.

Tomorrow is Sunday, which means another day without obligations at Encom. That's another stretch of cycles that feels like more than a month. He can get a hell of a lot done in that time. 

And the work he's doing, the rebuilding of code from the inside out, is too important to risk fucking it up on account of fatigue. 

Plus, the look on Quorra's face when he returns to his apartment is one Sam doesn't dare argue with. She looks like she just might knock him out if he doesn't put himself to bed willingly, so Sam holds up his hands in surrender and drops into bed fully clothed.

He's out so fast he doesn't even have time to wonder if he'll dream.

\- — - — - — - — -

He does dream. 

He dreams dark skies and jet black buildings, lines of electricity cutting through an angular horizon. There are pixels and raw streams of data, faceless throngs crying and screaming and trying to pen him in.

There's his father's face. Quorra's. Alan's. All watching him with hope, pity, regret—eyes full of contradictions that make him feel raw and uncertain.

And then there's Tron.

"What am I doing here?" Sam's voice carries clear and strong despite the wind that's begun tearing at the air.

Tron doesn't answer, but he smiles. It's a heavy smile, weighted down by something dark and guilty and regretful. The expression makes the smooth lines of his face look impossibly old. 

The next instant, Tron is right in front of him, close and sudden, and Sam is opening his mouth to say something else. He has other questions worth asking, he's sure of it. But Tron's lips are in the way and Sam doesn't manage a single word.

But that's just fine, because Tron's mouth is cool and dominant and perfect on his. Tron is pressing close along Sam's front, and Sam couldn't retreat even if he wanted to. There's a wall behind him now that wasn't there before. It's smooth and warm, and it pulses with power. 

There's a distant corner of Sam's brain that knows this is a dream. The contours feel too sharp, the details too diffuse, not to mention the fact that Tron is _kissing_ him. But that doesn't stop Sam from reaching with greedy hands, touching everywhere he can. He draws Tron flush against him, or maybe Tron is shoving him that much harder against the wall, but there's light, and there's friction, and Sam gasps when one of Tron's hands slips up beneath his shirt, smooth-gloved fingers grazing Sam's spine—

And then he wakes, sharp and sudden, and he's alone in his bed with the first gray hints of dawn creeping in through the window.

He's hard beneath denim, and now he wishes he hadn't slept in his clothes last night. His pants are uncomfortably tight, and he feels a little too weird about the dream to just reach down, open his fly and take care of the problem.

"Well," he mutters, scrubbing one hand over sleep-crusted eyes. "Fuck."

When his erection doesn't subside, he takes himself into his cramped closet of a bathroom and turns on the shower. He tries to keep his mind blank as he brings himself off, but it's a losing battle. 

He slumps against the wall of the shower afterwards, water going gradually chilly around him, and drops his head back with a thump.

"I am so screwed."


	4. Chapter 4

Sam drops back onto the Grid, and this time he sets down on a different stretch of shore. He spares a moment to wonder if there's some way to program a consistent location.

There must be. After all, his first trip in landed him in that surreal mimicry of his father's arcade. That had to be intentional. It's just a matter of programming the right coordinates and figuring out how to make them stick.

He doesn't get a chance to ponder his hypothesis before he's surrounded.

He doesn't know how the programs found him so quickly, or how there are so damn _many_. 

Sam curses as he reaches for his disc, feels it pulse to life beneath his fingers.

For a long moment, nobody moves. There's nervousness alongside the fury in every face surrounding him, a reluctant awe that won't be enough to stay their attack, but that Sam might be able to turn to his advantage. 

There are twenty programs, and only one of him, and Sam knows he'll need every advantage he can get. It might not be enough, but of course he has to try. This would be a shitty time to get taken out after everything he's survived so far.

"Kill him," says a flickering, feminine program to his left. "And dump his body in the sea." 

He half expects them to take turns coming at him (that's how it always goes in the movies), but the wide circle converges all at once, and Sam has bare seconds to strategize.

He moves instinctively into a crouch, and presses his palm flat to the ground. He can't defeat all of them in normal combat. Two of them, sure. Maybe three. Hell, maybe six, if he's very, very lucky and has the element of surprise on his side.

But not twenty. Not coming at him like this. So Sam holds his disc in one hand and turns his focus to the ground instead. There's code beneath his fingers, parameters defining the contours of the sand and the earth. Sam wrenches those parameters into a new configuration. The result is a muffled explosion as the ground in all directions shatters. 

Programs lose their footing and go flying. Sand and earth and splintered rock slice through the air. The explosion runs deep, and suddenly Sam is standing on a high circular pedestal of beach. His feet slip in the sand, and he tweaks the code again so that he's got something more solid to stand on. Then he surveys the programs below.

They can't reach him like this. Hell, Sam's not even sure he could make the jump uninjured going _down_ , never mind finding a way _up_.

Now Sam considers his disc, and on his first throw he takes out a surprised program at the base of the column.

His second throw is easily deflected, and then he doesn't dare throw his disc again because he needs it to block more than a dozen attacks flying up at him at once. He stumbles on his limited pillar, cursing that he's got no real room to maneuver, and keeps low. He shields himself with his disc as best he can and tries to come up with another brilliant plan.

He doesn't see the tiny blinking orb that rolls onto the field of battle below (too small for him to make out from so high a vantage point), but he sees the electric blue explosion that follows. It takes out the six closest programs in a vapor of dissolving energy, takes another seven down to their knees without derezzing them entirely. 

And then twin light discs are swinging into the fray, picking off two uninjured programs at once and a third as they fly in an elegant arc back to the hands that threw them. That leaves three uninjured programs, seven still injured but struggling to regain their footing as Tron dashes into view. He moves sharply, quick and deadly, taking on the strongest programs first. Sam has to remind himself to _do_ something now that the game has changed—his first inclination is to crouch right where he is and simply watch Tron _move_.

But the injured programs are distracted now, and Sam takes out three before the rest remember he's still a threat. The next one requires several attempts, and by the time he's scanning the ground in search of a fourth he realizes the rest of the targets are gone.

Tron stands motionless at the base of the pillar, face turned up, discs at his sides. Staring at Sam expectantly.

His circuits are flickering red, Sam can see that even from here, but the color is already steadying out, returning to its natural blue.

"I'll be down in a second!" Sam calls. Just as soon as he figures out how.

\- — - — - — - — -

It's easy enough to retract the column of earth and put himself back on ground level. He's careful not to step in any of the scattered pixels as he approaches Tron.

Tron meets him halfway, and Sam's head spins at the sight of the bright, relieved smile on the program's face. Tron's hands clasp Sam's arms tightly, warmly, and there's this weird moment where Sam wonders what he's supposed to do in return. Hug him? Stand here grinning like an idiot?

Definitely not kiss him, but of course Sam's wayward brain supplies that possibility in vivid detail.

He settles for returning the smile and reaching up to give Tron's arms a return squeeze. The moment is still a little weird, mostly because of the dreams Sam had last night, and the fact that he can't seem to fit those images back into their unobtrusive box in the back of his head.

He's disappointed when Tron drops his hands and steps abruptly away, wondering if he did something to scare the easy grin off the program's face.

"We should find cover," Tron says, already moving out of the circle of fallen programs. "More will be coming."

Sam locks his disc in place and follows.

\- — - — - — - — -

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get back," Sam says as they step into a well-camouflaged building, tucked into the base of a cliff near the outskirts of the city.

Sleep may have been necessary, but he still feels guilty for the delay. He knows how quickly time passes on the Grid.

But Tron looks at him without the faintest hint of annoyance. If anything there's quiet approval on his face, and he says, "You look rested." 

"I…" Sam flounders. "Yeah, I guess I really did need a solid night's sleep on the other side." 

The room they've stepped into is round and smooth, high-ceilinged and lit in calm, dim blues. Sam built it in a brief moment between other projects, and it looks like the location has remained uncompromised in his absence. There are no windows. Even the door is invisible from the outside when closed.

Silence settles between them, tense and expectant, and Sam finally blurts, "I talked to Alan."

He wonders if it's the right thing to say, then feels relief settle his nervous stomach when the words make Tron visibly relax. The tension runs right out of Tron's shoulders, and he turns a grateful, somber look on Sam.

Tron must know he reverted again during the battle on the shore. Sam wonders if he's replaying those moments in his mind—if he's imagining what would have happened if Sam hadn't been so far removed after the last enemy fell. Sam knows better than to wonder if Tron (Rinzler) would have killed him. Too many opportunities for that have come and gone, and he's not dead yet. But he's pretty sure he'd be on his back in the sand right now instead of here, in this safe, quiet room. 

There's a darkness to Tron's expression, though, that makes Sam suspect he's running worst case scenarios in his head. 

Sam realizes, guiltily, that he's imagining possibilities himself. But for him the thoughts generate a low, dangerous heat that he can't pretend not to recognize.

Remove the chance of death from the equation, and Sam doesn't mind the thought of Tron holding him down. Hell, even _with_ the danger Sam has to admit there's a pulse of pure, unmitigated _want_ shivering beneath his skin. He's got it bad, and he damn well knows it.

He shakes his head in an effort to clear his thoughts, and Tron looks at him curiously.

"Sorry," says Sam. "So. Alan. He let me look at his original files. I'm sure Dad tweaked your code up and down over the years, but hopefully now that I've seen the source material I can help without fucking you up any worse."

Tron moves suddenly, reaching for his merged discs and removing them with the same fast, unhurried grace that measures everything he does. He doesn't pull the discs apart. Instead, he drops to his knees before Sam—and fuck, _that’s_ an image Sam doesn't need right now—and holds the combined discs up level with the ground.

He looks like he's praying, and Sam's breath lodges uncomfortably in his throat.

Then Sam realizes what this actually is. Tron isn't praying, he's asking Sam to hurry up and get started, to get to work. Sam drops to the ground himself. His knees bang heavily on the smooth floor, too much momentum, but he ignores the discomfort and calls up the data from Tron's disc.

An image of Tron's face emerges, white sequences of code hanging in the air, and Sam manipulates the image, calls up the intricate web of information beneath. He's still not sure he knows what he's doing. He only watched his father do this once, and Quorra was a special case, nothing at all like a normal program. But the mechanism makes sense once he's poking around in the interface.

It's mostly intuition, but there's logic here, too. He spins a gridded sphere of data beneath his fingers, searching for the pieces that don't belong, and isolating them, tweaking them, all the while marveling at the sheer, silent trust of the program asking him to do this. 

Tron watches him work, quiet and inscrutable, and Sam thinks about how easy it would be to abuse this power. How simple to feel like a god in this sunless, digital space.

He does the best he can. He wishes there were any way (besides watching Tron for renewed flashes of red) to be sure it's enough.

"I think that's it," he says when he's finished. There's still more he could do, corners of code that still seem not quite right, but he doesn't know for sure what those corners do. They might by Flynn's tweaking and not Clu's. The template Sam studied isn't enough to answer that question, and he doesn't want to start inadvertently erasing pieces of Tron's memory and personality.

If the problem persists, he can deal with it then. Meanwhile, he needs to see the effects of the changes he just made. The alterations are substantial. The corrupted Rinzler code was buried deep, wrapped around every function and sub-process like a parasite, and Sam wonders what it will physically feel like, having all that corruption burned out in one go.

Tron doesn't move to stand as he reaches behind his back and locks the discs in place.

Turns out staying on the ground was a wise choice. Tron's eyes ignite in a quick glow that dies down immediately. A loud gasp escapes his lips, and he curls suddenly forward. He braces himself on his hands, gasps again, low and audible, and the panels of light along his body pulse brighter.

"Hey, hey, hey," Sam reaches out and gets his hands on Tron. He leans close even though there's nothing he can do besides watch with worried eyes. "Are you okay?" Tron doesn't answer. He's shaking too hard, eyes clenched shut, and he curls even further forward against Sam. His hands come up and suddenly he's clinging to Sam's clothes, dragging him close like Sam can anchor him somehow. 

Sam's damn well going to try, and he tightens his hold, slides his arms around Tron to offer more solid support. His fingers brush the joined, pulsing discs on Tron's back, and he's jolted with a low charge of static.

They cling to each other for what feels like long minutes, and Sam doesn't dare move.

When Tron finally stops shaking, they're pressed against each other, chest to chest. Tron's fists have found their way to the back of Sam's jacket, and his forehead is smooth and cool against Sam's jaw. Sam's knees hurt from the hard floor beneath him, but Tron is kneeling practically on top of him and he doesn't have enough space to shift his weight.

The moment is suddenly awkward as Sam processes just how close they are. The armor on Tron's back is smooth beneath his hands, and Sam needs to back off now, before he does or says something stupid. Except he still can't move. Tron is holding him too tightly, and doesn't seem inclined to let go.

Sam spares a moment to pray he didn't fuck up Tron's code after all, and then Tron is shifting. Breathing a quiet, "Thank you," in Sam's ear. The words dissolve the fear, but they do nothing to slow the rising rate of Sam's pulse.

"You're welcome," Sam says, feeling dumb and distracted. "I'm…" He's what? Glad it worked? Sorry he had to do it in the first place? Turned on like a goddamn teenager and praying Tron doesn't notice?

When Sam doesn't complete his sentence aloud, Tron pulls back far enough to regard him. He still doesn't let go, and his proximity is starting to undermine Sam's willpower. Tron is close enough to kiss. He's close enough that if this were someone else, someone in the world above, Sam would be damn sure they were about to kiss _him_.

Tron _does_ know what kissing is, Sam reminds himself, but he shushes that particular voice. Tron knows a _lot_ of things that are none of Sam's business.

"Thank you," Tron says again, as though he doesn't think his point got through the first time.

This time Sam just nods. Neither of them moves.

Tron's hands shift eventually, releasing his grip on Sam's jacket, and it's enough of a kick in the pants to set Sam in motion. He yanks his hands away from Tron hastily and scrambles to his feet in an undignified flail of limbs. Tron stands more slowly, fluidly, and follows Sam to the corner where a pitcher of glowing blue energy waits beside two empty glasses.

"A toast, man," says Sam, pouring them each a generous glass and handing one to Tron. 

"To what?" asks Tron.

"To whatever you like," Sam says with a shrug. "The Grid, the work we've done, the work we're _going_ to do…"

He tosses back a swallow of the drink and feels it buzz pleasantly through him. When he glances down, the circuits woven into his clothes are glowing brighter with the fresh energy. 

He turns to Tron with a smile and finds the program watching him intently.

"Shall we get back to work?" Sam asks. But he's already moving. He doesn't need to wait for a reply.

\- — - — - — - — -

Part of him wants to ignore the Grid for now and find himself an off-Grid vehicle. The voice in the back of his head (the one insisting that his dad might still be out there), has grown faint with time, but returning to the Grid again brings Sam's original purpose back into focus.

Or maybe his talk with Alan was the catalyst.

But Tron's logic is still sound. They don't know where to look. The best thing Sam can do is finish repairing the Grid. Putting the city back together is the best way to catch his father's attention, if his father is out there somewhere to notice. 

A tiny, subversive voice in the back of Sam's head asks, ' _Shouldn't he have seen the beacon, then? Shouldn't he know what it means_?' But Sam ignores that voice and leads Tron to Psi Sector. 

He hasn't touched this neighborhood yet, but there are already programs meandering the safest parts of the street. Apparently Sam's recent repairs have made the Grid's inhabitants more bold.

He hides even deeper in his heavy cloak, and Tron does the same beside him.

It's a different sort of work now. He can't just dive in and move from one building to the next in line until Tron cuts him off and orders him to rest or retreat. He has to find quieter corners, hidden entrances, basements and alleys and shadowed spaces where he can work while Tron stands guard. Sometimes he doesn't get to finish before the curious are there to investigate, and he has to file the information away for later.

He's getting pretty good at the ninja thing, at least. He and Tron barely even need to speak while Sam works. A touch to his shoulder or a meaningful glance are all the warning Sam needs to wrap up his work and follow Tron to safer ground. 

They make a good team, and Sam tells himself (repeatedly) that that's all he needs.

\- — - — - — - — -

He can tell even without glancing over that Tron doesn't want to be in Beta Sector. 

Sam doesn't blame him. There's enough foot traffic here to hide them from most prying eyes, but if the wrong program catches a glimpse of Sam's face they might have an ugly situation on their hands.

Beta Sector is as close as Tron has been able to track the main hub of the anti-User extremists, which is why they're here (much as Tron tried to talk him out of it). It's also one of the busiest sectors of the city. They both hide behind their hoods, just like always. They move as deliberately and inconspicuously as possible.

It must not be enough, because they round the corner of a tall building and Tron picks up his pace, grabbing Sam's arm to urge him faster.

"What is it?" Sam asks, even as he hurries to keep up.

"Three programs," Tron answers brusquely. "I don't recognize them. They've been trying to box us in." Sam wonders how long they've been following, but he doesn't ask. He just follows Tron's nudging directions, pace picking up even further as they duck sudden corners, dart under bridges, trying to lose their tails.

Nothing works. Sam doesn't have to look behind him to tell, he can figure it out from the grim set of Tron's features. 

They're moving into even more populated streets now, and their rapid movements are drawing unwanted attention. Tron ushers him across a crowded plaza, his fingers a ceaseless, guiding pressure at the small of Sam's back, and then they're through the throngs and moving into a narrower alley, dim and stark by comparison.

Tron's eyes search the skyline above, but Sam focuses on moving forward. He can see another busy street ahead, at the end of the alley, and—

" _Hey_ ," he gasps as Tron yanks him up short and drags him around a corner, into a narrow crevice Sam didn't even see. "What—"

But Tron covers Sam's mouth with one hand, effectively shutting him up, and turns his eyes back towards the alley.

There's not really enough space for two of them here, and Sam is painfully aware of the way Tron is crowding him against the wall. Tron's posture is protective, his whole body a shield between Sam and anyone that might attack them. The aperture back into the alley is narrow enough, skewed enough, that they might just go unnoticed in here.

But Sam is all too aware of the bright glow of their circuits, and how easily the light could give away their position.

He considers the problem for a moment and then closes his eyes, focuses on his own body, on Tron pressed so close, and then simply… turns down the lights. 

When he opens his eyes he finds only the barest pulse of light emanating from his clothes, and from Tron's armor. He also finds Tron's eyes on him, wide and staring. Tron's hand, still clamped tightly over Sam's mouth, finally pulls away.

"How did you do that?" Tron asks in a whisper. 

Sam smiles and shrugs, and says, "Hell if I know." 

Footsteps rush by, then. Two red-lit programs, a yellow program behind them. Then silence. 

"Was that them?" Sam whispers cautiously. Tron nods, then turns his attention back to Sam.

"This was a bad idea," Tron says, keeping his voice soft. "Whatever you hoped to gain by visiting this sector, it can't be worth the danger your presence here puts you in."

"I needed to get the lay of the land," Sam whispers back. He still does, too, but he's starting to get that he may have miscalculated along the way. "How can I convince a Gridful of scared, angry programs to let me help them if I don't know what the counter-arguments are?"

"By doing exactly what you've _been_ doing," Tron insists, shifting in the narrow space in a way that leaves Sam biting back a hiss and struggling to keep his hands at his sides. Tron is still talking, though, and Sam does his best to listen as the program continues, "Putting the Grid back together a piece at a time. Showing them you intend to see this through. _Not_ by getting yourself cornered and torn to pieces in the most User-hostile sector of the city." 

"Fine," Sam mutters. "Fair point. Do you think we can get out of here unnoticed?" 

"I think we'd better," Tron says, turning back the way they came.

\- — - — - — - — -

When they emerge at the end of the alley, a familiar face is waiting for them. 

"Perl," Sam says, louder than he means to. The program smiles, wide and bright, as f trying to convey an air of complete harmlessness. 

Perl is alone. He stands apart from the nearest edges of crowd.

Tron keeps pace at Sam's side as he approaches and greets the program with a nod. Tron doesn't mimic the greeting. Perl returns it in kind, but doesn't spare the slightest glance for Sam's companion.

"Come along then," Perl says. "Rumor has it there's a User in the sector. Search parties are converging all over. I think we should find you somewhere quiet to lie low, just until the worst blows over." He turns to lead the way. Sam hesitates a moment—just long enough to exchange a look with Tron. It's obvious from the set of Tron's features that the security program is strongly opposed to this plan. 

But Perl has come through enough times that Sam is willing to take the bet and follow. The program has helped him in the past, with no clear reason to do so, and allies are scarce enough that Sam sees no alternative.

If word about his presence has spread so widely that search parties are closing in, they'll never make it out of the sector in one piece.

So Sam follows, Tron a bare step behind him, as Perl leads the way.

\- — - — - — - — -

"You should be safe here," Perl announces as the portal they just entered seals closed behind them. "This is my own private domicile. Hard to come by, these days, but possible if you have the right connections." 

"Thank you," Sam says, shedding his cloak and tossing it over the back of a sharp, angular couch. Tron does the same. Sam wonders if he should make an approving comment about the décor, but decides against it. 

The space is so empty—so stark and drab and precise—that anything he says will just sound phony. 

"Come," Perl says with a sweeping gesture, urging his guests farther into the blank, symmetrical space. "Let me fix you a drink. You can be completely at ease here."

Yeah, that's definitely not going to happen. But as long as they avoid any dramatic betrayals, Sam plans on being a gracious guest, and he crosses the room to where their host is pressing a specific sequence of lights on the wall. A section shifts and slides, and suddenly there's a long, narrow counter jutting into the room. A panel in the counter slides away and a row of clear bottles rises to the surface. The liquid inside the bottles glows on a spectrum of color, and Perl flashes a welcoming smile, pulling out three glasses and setting them on the counter beside the offerings.

"I recommend the green," he says in a conspiratorial tone. 

Sam nods, and watches him pour.

"And for you?" Perl asks, eyes flicking to Tron, then back to his task. In Sam's peripheral vision, Tron doesn't move, which Perl must take to mean 'no thank you', because he pours only two servings of the glowing green beverage.

Then he steps close with both glasses in hand (closer than he has any reason to, really) and hands one of them to Sam. Sam accepts the handoff and takes a sip, tasting the sharp tang of power on his tongue. From this close he's suddenly aware of Perl's features in an almost intrusive way—smooth round jaw, delicate cheekbones, narrow nose that sits too long on his face—and he wonders if it would be rude to step back and put some space between them.

He doesn't want to be a bad guest, but he's not entirely comfortable with the way Perl is looking at him now. There's something questing and curious in those pale eyes as he raises his own glass in a mock salute and then takes a sip.

Sam takes another sip himself, not sure what to say into the suddenly resounding silence.

Tron is no help. Sam can practically hear his companion stewing behind him, wordless and stoic and obviously frustrated that they're _here_ instead of finding some clever, daring and probably dangerous route to a less populated sector.

"So," Perl breezes at last, setting aside his mostly full glass and leaning a casual elbow on the countertop. "I suppose you'll want to lay low for at least half a millicycle. Any idea where you'll go after that?"

"Not really," says Sam. It's easier to stay unpredictable if he avoids making actual plans. Far better to make it up as he goes and, by sheer force of chaos, stay ahead of anyone that might be trying to track his movements.

"Well, then," says Perl. "Best make the most of the interval you’re here. How _will_ you pass the time?"

Sam hasn't even thought of a pithy reply before his train of thought gets derailed by the fact that Perl is _touching_ him—suddenly, with no warning , just idle fingers exploring the folds of his jacket, the shirt beneath. Perl's thumb traces one of Sam's fake lines of circuitry, and he's inexplicably glad the light is just for show.

Christ, how is he going to find a graceful way out of _this_? 

He doesn't have time to brainstorm possible responses. One second it's just him and Perl, sharing this one uncomfortable instant, and the next second he's staring at the back of Tron's head as the security program positions himself deliberately between them. 

Sam shifts to the side just slightly, just enough to make out Tron's profile—enough to see that Tron's expression has gone dark and furious. The sight makes Sam's breath catch in his throat. Even wrapped in intense battle against a dozen foes, this is one expression he's never seen on Tron's face.

"Now, now," Perl is clucking, already backing prudently away. "Calm down, you brute. I was just making conversation." 

Tron doesn't respond. Perl's eyes go fractionally wider, and Sam realizes that's genuine fear dawning across his face.

"Oh, all right," Perl says, placating and tight and watching Tron warily. "I apologize for my… imprudence. Though I must say, I wouldn't have pegged you for the possessive type. Seems a little presumptuous." 

Sam blinks, confused by the one-sided exchange, but he doesn't interrupt. Tron still doesn't speak.

"It's simply an observation," Perl says with an affected shrug. "He is a User, after all. Oh yes, I'm well aware, no need to look so surprised. And perhaps he'd like to indulge in some broader horizons. Or are you a romantic who thinks you and you alone can satisfy him?"

Tron's face has gone shuttered and tight, impenetrable. Even the anger is gone in favor of a stark, blank stare. Sam can feel the threat of violence stirring the air, and never mind that he's finally figured out what their host is implying. It's an accusation that hits off the mark but still a little too close to home for Sam's liking. 

He has to do something.

"Okay, woah," he interrupts, stepping around Tron and ignoring the way Tron's stare shifts to him, intense and inscrutable. "No one is _satisfying_ anyone right now. We appreciate you giving us shelter. Can't we just pass the time, I don't know, talking?" 

Perl's expression relaxes at Sam's intervention, and he replies, "Of course we can. May I freshen your glass? Perhaps you'd like something more substantial?"

"No," Sam says. "Thank you."

Perl moves towards one of those angular couches at the center of the room, giving Sam and Tron a wide berth. Sam watches him go, then spares a glance for Tron. 

Tron has gone from staring at him too intensely, to staring resolutely in another direction entirely. His attention seems to be fixated on an empty patch of wall. There's nothing to see there, and Sam wonders why Tron suddenly won't look at him. Has he given himself away somehow? Is Tron really _that_ offended at the thought of physical intimacy with a User?

But even as a blurry edge of panic threatens in Sam's chest, another possibility occurs to him. He dismisses it almost immediately.

Tron can't be jealous. 

But now the seed is there in Sam's head, and he can't quite shake the irrational hope. It more or less cancels out the terror of having given himself away, at least. He's got both extremes covered now, and chances are there's some other reason—some logical middle ground that he simply can't see right now. 

He claps Tron briefly on the shoulder before following Perl to the center of the room and settling into a seat several feet away. 

Tron follows a moment later, stubbornly silent. He sits on the couch beside Sam, closer than he should, and doesn't once take his eyes off of Perl.

\- — - — - — - — -

Perl sees them to the edge of the sector, though he keeps a respectful distance when at last he bids them goodbye. 

His eyes flick nervously to Tron, then refocus on Sam and he says, "I hope this won't be the last I see of you."

"I'm sure it won't be," Sam says, and means it. 

He doesn't waste time with lengthy goodbyes. Instead he picks a direction (mostly at random, though vaguely aimed at a sector he's been itching to get his hands on), and moves down the nearly empty street with quick steps. Tron falls in beside him, unquestioning, and before long Perl disappears behind them.

"So," Sam says conversationally, aware of just how close Tron is at his side, moving almost exactly in step with him. "Interesting visit."

He's watching closely, glance cutting to the side to follow Tron's reaction beneath his hood, so he catches the way Tron's face clouds before smoothing into the neutral, measured blank he's been wearing since that awkward confrontation.

There was anger there for an instant, and Sam spends a moment wondering (fantasizing) about what that might mean. 

"He had no right to be so forward," Tron says in a carefully measured tone. 

"For a second there I thought you were going to take his head off," Sam says, and despite the way his nerves feel right now (tight, jumpy, dangerous), he smiles. The stoic blankness of Tron's expression cracks a little, leaving something a little lighter, a little easier in its wake.

"Anyway," Sam says, fumbling but relieved. "Thanks for coming to my rescue like that. I owe you one."

Tron looks surprised, and he pauses mid-stride to blink at Sam before resuming his pace.

"You're… not angry?" Tron asks. Now it's Sam's turn to blink in surprise, and his eyes narrow.

"Why would I be angry?"

Tron looks uncertain now, gaze set straight ahead in a way that makes Sam feel like he's being avoided.

"What he said… He was right. It _was_ presumptuous of me," Tron finally says, still not meeting Sam's eyes. "My role is to protect you from physical danger. I shouldn't have interfered."

"What?" Sam looks at Tron more closely. "You—… No way, man, you saved my ass back there. You saw that I was uncomfortable and you stepped in." And maybe he got a little carried away, but Sam's not going to call him out on that now. 

Tron stops again, and this time when he looks at Sam there's shocked disbelief in his eyes. Sam's not sure what he said that's so hard to swallow, but he stops as well and returns the look as steadily as he can. 

"You were… uncomfortable." Tron repeats, and it almost sounds like a question.

"Uh. Yeah?" Sam feels like he's missing something here. "That's why you shut him down, isn't it?" 

Tron stares. Blinks. Stares a moment longer. 

Then he turns his attention back along the street and resumes his pace. Actually, it's a faster pace he sets now, and this time Sam _knows_ he's being avoided. Problem is, he's got no idea what he said wrong. 

He hurries to keep up and mentally reviews their conversation. His last question seems innocuous enough. He can't figure out why Tron is responding (or rather, _not_ responding) to it this way.

Then there's that niggling, hopeful voice in his head again. The one whispering dangerous words like ' _jealous_ ' and ' _wants you_ ' and a million other fantasies Sam can't afford to indulge in. 

It's a little harder to shut the voice down this time, though. It's not like he has any other explanation for the way Tron is refusing to look at him now.


	5. Chapter 5

They're attacked twice in Gamma Sector, then once in Eta Sector. 

Rinzler doesn't resurface. Sam starts to hope the reprogramming was enough, that it will hold. Tron watches him with mingled gratitude and relief, and Sam fidgets beneath the intensity of the look.

On a high roof that rises right on the border between Zeta and Delta Sectors, they're surrounded so completely that dread settle instantly in Sam's stomach. 

It feels like an ambush—and maybe it was. This building rises taller than anything around it, sharp-edged and fractured as it looms brokenly in the sky. Begging to be fixed. It was only a matter of time before it caught Sam's eye.

Delta Sector is heavily industrial. Relay towers, processing centers, enormous equipment that Sam doesn't have the slightest comprehension of yet. Enormous turbines spin in a fast-moving column between this building and the next one over. There's a significant drop from the rooftops to the rushing, rotating parts.

There's an even more significant drop on the other two sides of the tall, triangular building. All the way down to street level, so far below Sam can barely make out the backlit crevices in the dark pavement.

Which makes this the perfect place for an ambush, and Sam has a moment (just before all hell breaks loose) to think that he really should have seen this coming.

He doesn't think much after that. He's too busy moving. 

There are too damn many of them for Sam to bother with any kind of strategy. All he can do is duck and roll, dodging attacks from one direction after another. His reflexes kick into an adrenaline fueled zone that makes everything feel disconnected, and Sam ducks a burly program's light disc as it zips by too close for comfort. He takes the program out before the speeding disc returns, then rolls again as two more programs converge on his position.

There's not enough room to maneuver, not around this many opponents, and Sam tries to stick to the center of the roof. He doesn't want one of the tall guys to just pick him up by the scruff of the neck and hurl him over the side.

He's aware of Tron, even though he's too busy saving his own skin to track the security program's position. He catches glimpses between rows of attackers, sees Tron in constant motion, discs bright and burning through one body after another. 

He and Tron aren't winning. But they're holding their own, which seems like a small miracle. 

Three programs converge on Sam's position at once, and he throws himself low to the ground. He scrambles away right between one program's knees, and derezzes two of them before they've even caught up.

There are still well over a dozen programs circling him, attacking, throwing discs and other projectiles. At one point Sam finds himself back-to-back with Tron, and they turn slowly, gazes assessing the circle of restless programs already gearing up for a renewed attack. 

"Are you hurt?" Tron asks, voice a soft growl.

"No," says Sam. "You?"

"I'm fine."

And then they're moving again, and Sam loses track of Tron in favor of slamming his disc through a white-clad program's thigh. The program wails on the way down, and Sam pauses just long enough to land a killing blow before he's rolling away from a meaty hand that tries to grab him from behind. 

Their opponents' numbers are down to half a dozen now. Sam and Tron are _winning_ , and Sam can't believe it. His eyes search the rooftop, and he finds Tron nearby, grappling at close range with a quick, slender Siren.

Sam's about to turn away when he sees the Siren drop her identity disc, wrap herself around Tron, and take them both over the edge of the building.

" _No_!" Sam screams, and he's already running. In barely an instant, he reaches the low wall that borders the rooftop. Just in time to see scattered pixels being torn apart by the quick, heavy turbines below.

"No," Sam says, more quietly this time, as shock and denial, and a slick, slithering pain settle into his chest. His hands hold knuckle-white to the edge of the roof, and the circuits lining his clothes (no cloak now, not in the middle of combat) pulse brighter and sharper. There's a terrified supernova tightening beneath his ribs where his heart is supposed to be, and he can't blink, can't move, can't fucking _breathe_ all of a sudden. He doesn't even try to resist when rough hands grab him from either side and drag him to his feet.

He stumbles and almost lands on his knees, prevented only by the hands holding him up. And as he looks down at himself he realizes he can barely see his own body—the light has grown too bright, and he's forced to squint and look away even as the restraining hands propel him forward. 

When he's dragged to an abrupt stop, Sam finally raises his eyes to assess the situation. 

There are five programs left. Four in white, two of which stand on either side of Sam, holding him so securely he might as well be in handcuffs. The third holds his disc (he must have dropped it when he ran for the edge of the roof), and a fourth stands directly in front of Sam. A black-clad program stands quietly off to the side, looking more interested in the surrounding rooftop than the confrontation coming to a head between User and programs. 

Sam should say something. They think they have him (and they do, obviously they do, he can't even move, can't think past the burning pulse of light refracting around him), which means they might let things slip if he asked the right questions. If he gets out of here, he'll need all the information he can get.

But Sam's tongue is frozen in his mouth, his mind too stuck on the hollow, gutted feeling in his chest to come up with any kind of strategy. He stares at the program glaring him down, and he can't think of anything to say.

The program smiles. It's an arrogant smirk, hateful and self-satisfied, and Sam feels anger swell in that shadowed corner of his chest where moments before there was only empty shock.

Who do these fuckers think they are? What gives them the right? Sam's just trying to do the right thing, just trying to repair a world of damage he didn't cause, and Tron— 

Tron fought for him.

It takes Sam a moment to register that the wind, mild and unassuming a moment before, has picked up speed. The air is noisy, and the light grows more intense by the second. Even if he doesn't look down, Sam has to squint from the brightness, and in his peripheral vision he sees that the programs holding him upright now look a lot less certain of the situation. 

Good, Sam thinks. Fuck them all.

It's not conscious inspiration guiding Sam, when he spreads his palms flat in the air and reaches for any and all power surrounding him. It's just a desperate need to hurt, to tear these fuckers apart, and without his disc his options are limited. His own body pulses even brighter, and the programs to either side of him flicker unpleasantly. 

The three other programs (the ones not touching him) try to step away, but Sam gives an inarticulate growl and sends a pulse through the rooftop—a static charge that locks them in place—and then he's drawing in all the energy in reach. All five programs gutter and darken. It's like watching a shadow spread across the rooftop, out and out along the surface as Sam sucks the power into himself. Tall shadows spread from the dimming programs, stretching as the light Sam is emitting intensifies and chases the darkness across the roof. 

He expects the five programs to collapse, but instead they dissolve before his eyes, one after another in a quiet cascade of pixels. 

They don't scream. That surprises him.

Then it's just Sam on the roof, alone and shaking. He hits his knees hard, curls in on himself and wonders what it would be like to throw up in this digitized space. 

The power he's accumulated rockets out of him like a shockwave, supernova charging out of his chest in an explosion of light and sound. It echoes through the air and leaves Sam even emptier than before.

The circuits in his clothing hum steadily, but his whole body feels achy and tired and wrong. He thinks about standing up. He doesn't even try.

He falls forward instead, slipping over onto his side. Once he's done that it's so easy to simply spread out on his back, numb and empty and shying away from that fresh, sore place in his chest.

He watches the inky sky. He sees the lines and contours of the surrounding buildings, glowing uninterrupted by his temper. Gradually the roof beneath him comes back to life as well. Blue-white light filters into familiar geometric shapes, filling in the blank spaces and sending everything back to normal. 

Sam knows he should get out of here. He can't imagine what the explosion looked like from a distance, but it had to have lit this tower up like a beacon.

But he can't move. He feels too empty for that. His chest hurts. His stomach is knotting up, and an unpleasant numbness seeps into his thoughts and coats everything gray.

There are footsteps, and he can't even bring himself to turn the direction they're coming from. Things can't end this way. Sam still has a mission to complete, and he promised Alan. But his limbs don't respond when he tells them to move.

Then a figure drops to the rooftop beside him. A male figure in dark armor, with a distinctive sequence of lights high on his chest. Sam raises his eyes, and he stares. He can't believe what he's seeing. Relief hits him in an uncontrolled shudder, and for a second time he realizes he can't breathe. 

Tron's eyes are running over him, sharp and assessing, Tron's hands touch his arms, his chest. Probably just checking for damage, but Sam gasps anyway.

"Tron," he whispers. _How_ , he wants to know.

"Where are you hurt?" Tron asks. Sam is confused for a moment, then realizes. It's stupid to be lying here (he should have retreated), therefore from Tron assumes he must be hurt.

"I'm not." Sam sits up unsteadily. Tron looks skeptical, and Sam says, "I swear, I’m not hurt. I just. Fuck. You're—" He can't finish. He can't find the words. So he wraps his arms around Tron's neck instead, too grateful and relieved and exhausted to wonder if he's crossing any unwelcome lines. The motion overbalances them, and Sam grunts as his back hits the rooftop and Tron's weight collapses half across him.

Tron seems inclined to oblige him for the moment, at least. He doesn't pull away. He just shifts slightly, angling for a more comfortable position, getting his hands out from where they're squashed between them and gripping Sam's arms instead.

Sam should let go now. They should move.

"How?" he asks instead. "I saw you derezzed. The turbines—"

"You saw the Siren derezzed," Tron says. Sam must be imagining the way he settles closer with the words, the way his cheek seems to nudge against the shell of Sam's ear. "I managed to catch hold of an edge just above the machinery. I climbed back up as fast as I could. I was afraid I wouldn't make it in time." He _didn't_ make it in time. They both know it. But they're both still alive, against all the odds, and Sam laughs weakly.

"Forget it, man," he says. "You're right on schedule."

\- — - — - — - — -

 

Sam doesn't try to finish restructuring the tower. Once they're back on their feet reality settles in, and he knows there isn't time. Who knows how many programs are closing in on their position now. 

He lets Tron lead the way, down through the tower and into a low, narrow street. The street passes beneath overhanging edges of grim, blocky buildings. 

They don't pass any other programs. They don't stop until they've reached a patchy building that Tron deems sufficiently safe.

"Do you think anyone will look for us here?" Sam asks, following Tron through a door that seals instantly behind them.

"It's possible," says Tron. "But we weren't followed. And there are at least five different exits to this building, two of which run beneath the streets. We'll be almost impossible to box in here."

"Good." 

They move farther into the spartan entryway, down a corridor and up a winding, glowing set of stairs. The stairs are sturdy, though a couple of steps are missing.

"Have you been in here before?" Sam asks, suddenly curious. Usually they move through a new space with a sense of cautious exploration. Tron seems to be moving purposefully instead, familiar and unconcerned.

"Yes." Tron leads the way to a door about halfway down the next corridor. "I've used this place myself. It's secure." Which means this is home, or at least as close as Tron has these days, and Sam feels a little like a houseguest as he follows Tron into another room and watches the program shed his cloak.

There are actual furnishings in here, albeit sparse ones. Something like a coat rack near the door where Tron hangs his cloak, Sam does the same. A narrow table in one corner, scattered with opaque vials and bottles that Sam suspects are full of glowing blue energy. A sleek, low couch that takes up the length of one wall. The space they're in isn't what Sam would call 'sprawling'. 

There are no windows. 

It's clear this is a space intended for rest and safety. When Tron moves to sit on the couch, Sam half expects him to kick his legs up onto the cushions and stretch out.

But Tron simply sits. And watches Sam. And the moment is charged with something that feels terrifyingly like potential.

Sam's always been one to trust his instincts, and he doesn't give himself time to overthink things now. There will be time for thinking later, after Tron pushes him away (after Tron tells him no). But right now moves straight for Tron. He feels the questions in Tron's eyes as they follow him across the small room.

Then Sam drops heavily, unapologetically, to straddle Tron's lap.

"What are you doing?" Tron asks, blinking up at Sam. There's genuine confusion in his eyes, but Sam's pretty sure that's not all he sees there.

He considers answering in words, but what can he say that will convey everything he needs Tron to understand?

Sam slides his fingers through Ton's hair, leans down and kisses him. From the way Tron immediately moves beneath him—opens for him, kisses him back, gets his hands on Sam—the message doesn't get lost in translation.

They kiss for long minutes, and Sam feels frantic and greedy, like he can't get enough. Tron's touch is solid, his mouth cool and welcoming, and Sam is in constant motion, touching, exploring, sliding against him. All the while wishing there were some way he could just get _closer_ —

Then gravity upends him, and when he blinks his eyes open he's on his back with Tron hovering above him. The couch cushions aren't particularly soft beneath his back, but it's a detail Sam barely registers as he parts his legs wider and feels Tron's sleek form settle between them. Tron is pressing against him in all the right places now, and Sam watches, frozen in anticipation, as Tron lowers himself slowly and (finally) kisses Sam again.

Tron's touch is more forceful now, exploring and demanding. Sam's pants feel tight and restrictive as he arches against the firm lines of the program's body, the smooth, supple armor—as his hips give an instinctive thrust and his hands cling to whatever they can get hold of.

Christ, he _knows_ he's going to make a mess of this. He's going to make a mess of _them_ and their strange but solid working relationship. But at the moment, Sam can't bring himself to care.

When Tron draws back from the kiss, Sam tries to follow him. But Tron holds him in place with one hand, placates him with a string of kisses along his jaw, then a quick nip at the line of his throat. Sam gasps, then spends a jealous moment wondering where he picked up that trick.

Then Tron speaks, voice a low rumble against Sam's ear. His words should make Sam chill the fuck out, but all they do is send a dangerous pool of heat swirling low in his gut.

"Tell me what to do."

Sam grunts, half a curse on his tongue. His hips stutter forward again, meeting pressure and friction but not, he realizes, a matching hard-on. Christ, this is surreal. Tron draws back far enough to look him in the eye, and there's no hesitation on the program's face. Just a barely contained hunger, and Sam can't focus with the weight of Tron's body bearing him down like this, with the deliberate press of Tron's hand on his chest. 

Tron is waiting for something from him, Sam remembers, and he says, "Huh?"

"Tell me what to do," Tron repeats. "Tell me how to please you." The words themselves are subservient, though the tone they're spoken in is anything but. There's an almost teasing note, something mischievous and eager that matches the heated expression on Tron's face.

Of course. Tron's never been with a User before. The interface is clearly different.

Sam doesn't bother trying to answer in words. Instead he covers Tron's hand on his chest, and after barely a second's pause, guides the touch lower. The fabric of his shirt creases beneath their progress. They reach the waistband of Sam's jeans, and then, _then_ Tron is cupping him through the material and Sam is swearing out loud and bucking into that perfect point of contact. He thinks Tron is watching him with wide eyes, but it's hard to tell through the flood of ' _Yes, fuck, yes_ ' in his head.

It's still not enough. It's close, god it's close, Sam could get off on this if he put half a mind to it. But he wants more, and he lets go of Tron's hand to reach for his fly. He spares half a brain cell to be glad he's in something resembling his real clothes this trip as he undoes the button, the zipper, then reaches for Tron's hand again.

Tron follows with fascinated obedience as Sam repositions their hands, this time sliding their combined touch beneath denim and boxers to reach his straining erection. Tron's fingers obey nimbly at his urging, close around Sam's heated flesh. If Tron's weight weren't anchoring him to the couch, Sam is pretty sure he'd be on the floor right now, whole body spasming at how fucking _good_ that feels.

" _Fuck_ ," he gasps, arching and slamming his eyes shut as he struggles not to lose it too soon.

He guides Tron's hand to motion, shows him he can go faster, harder, and Tron doesn't shy from the task. His fingers are confident, the pressure and friction perfect despite the fact that there's not nearly enough room to maneuver. Sam draws his own hand away. He wants to try and return the favor somehow. He wants to push Tron's buttons, figure out what does it for the somber security program, but all Sam can manage is getting his hands on Tron and holding tight.

He shouts when he comes, and light pulses around him—out of him—erupting through the room like a wave. He still wants to return the favor, but he's too busy arching against Tron, too busy clinging to him like a lifeline, too busy collapsing back under the tug of gravity and exhaustion.

\- — - — - — - — -

 

Orgasms always leave him sleepy. Apparently it's a fact as true on the Grid as in the world above. 

Sam wakes without opening his eyes, and his head is resting on something comfortable. Fingers card through his hair in a surprisingly tender gesture. But Tron must guess he's conscious somehow, despite Sam's efforts to go unnoticed, because the fingers disappear.

"How do you feel?" Tron's voice asks, and Sam opens his eyes. He finds he's lying across the couch with his head in Tron's lap.

"Like a million bucks," Sam says. "Fuck, I'm sorry, I really left you in the lurch there." He feels like a grade-A heel, and wonders briefly if the word 'cocktease' applies here.

"You didn't," says Tron, and Sam shifts to blink up at him in surprise.

"Huh?"

"You emitted quite a power surge when you…" Tron trails off, lost for the word. Whatever programs use to describe their own equivalent moment of satisfaction, apparently he considers it inapplicable.

"When I came?" Sam asks, a smile breaking over his face.

Tron tilts his head quizzically, considering the offered alternative. 

"That word seems inapt to describe a culmination of this magnitude."

"Culmination," Sam snorts. "That's a new one. You can use orgasm if you want. Or climax. And hell, there are a whole boatload of other euphemisms, but I can't really picture you using any of them." Now that he thinks about it, though, the idea has a certain appeal. He files the thought away for later.

Sam sits up slowly now, stretches and feels the lethargy leaving his bones. He turns when he's upright, still crowded into Tron's space. The fingers of one hand press where Tron's inseam would be, if those bodysuits had anything as mundane as seams holding them together. Tron turns to regard him, returning Sam's scrutiny as Sam kneels too close.

"Is this really okay?" Sam asks. 

Tron's eyes fall to the place where Sam's hand is touching him, then return to Sam's face. There's a sated contentment in his expression, a quietly satisfied look that goes a long way towards quelling Sam's fear that he took things too far. 

Sam hates the nagging thought that he might've taken advantage—that Tron might have refrained from protest out of misplaced deference or some sense of obligation. But he doesn't think he could be reading the program _that_ wrong. Besides, Sam can instantly call to mind more than a dozen times Tron has told him 'no'. Never in a situation like this, maybe, but Tron has always spoken his mind before.

Tron's hand moves before he speaks. He reaches up to touch Sam's chest, fingers playing in idle, fascinated patterns over the fabric of his shirt. 

"We really do need to get you less conspicuous attire," Tron murmurs thoughtfully. "Your garments are too distinctive." 

He's not wrong. Sam knows it. But that's not the conversation they're supposed to be having now, so he catches Tron's wrist in his free hand and waits until he has the program's undivided attention.

Tron could escape his hold in an instant, but he lets Sam maintain the illusion of restraint.

"I need you to tell me if this is okay," Sam repeats. 

"I should be asking you that question," Tron says. Something cautious in his eyes draws Sam up short.

"Me? Why?"

Tron considers him silently for a moment, gauging and quiet, and finally says, "You didn't win that fight using traditional tactics."

Sam's head tilts fractionally in confusion. "So?"

"A spectacle like that must have required enormous energy reserves. When I regained the roof I thought… You didn't seem like yourself."

Sam's still not sure what that has to do with his question. But Tron is watching like he's waiting for Sam to acknowledge the obvious point, so Sam focuses harder. He tries to think it through and decipher Tron's words—tries to make them point to a useful conclusion.

When he figures it out he almost laughs. It _is_ obvious, and ridiculous, and Sam shakes his head.

"Oh my god. You're afraid you took advantage of _me_. Tron, no. Seriously. No way."

Tron looks skeptical. Sam doesn't know what to say.

"You gave no previous indication that you were interested in becoming intimate," Tron points out, eyes cutting briefly away but quickly returning to Sam's face.

At least now he knows he's been more discreet than he thought. But that means it's confession time, and Sam is scared to show his cards when he's still not quite sure where Tron stands. What if he already regrets what happened? What if he got carried away by the moment and never wanted this in the first place?

But Sam squares his shoulders and says, "I didn't want to scare you off. Or worse, make you feel like you owed me something."

Tron's brow crinkles in confusion. "But you've—"

"Been barely keeping my hands off you since I got back to the Grid," says Sam, smiling a little at the blatant surprise on Tron's face. "And don't even get me started about before I left. So you tell me." He takes both his hands back, then. Deliberate and meaningful. "Is this okay?"

Because he needs to know they're on the same page. He doesn't get to have this unless Tron is one hundred percent on board. 

Tron peers at him somberly, and Sam waits. An impatient urge to touch shivers beneath his skin, and he drops his hands to his thighs, clenches fingers in the fabric of his jeans. He realizes then, so belatedly it's laughable, that he should be sticky and uncomfortable in his shorts. He's not, and he spares a brief moment wondering why before dismissing the question as irrelevant.

He has more important things to worry about right now, like praying the next word out of Tron's mouth is 'yes' because it will hurt too damn much to take this all back now.

But Tron doesn't waste his breath answering in words. He wraps his fingers in the fabric of Sam's jacket, dragging him in close enough to claim his mouth in a sharp, hungry kiss. Sam loses his balance, slips forward and finds himself halfway in Tron's lap. He braces his hands on Tron's chest and feels the electrified thrum of power where his fingers touch open circuits. Tron makes a pleased sound low in his throat, and then lets go of Sam's coat, skirting his hands lower along Sam's body.

Sam breaks the kiss when Tron's fingers slide beneath the hem of his shirt to explore the skin beneath. He buries his face against Tron's throat and gasps at how fucking good even that simple touch feels—so smooth and precise that Sam forgets for a moment that Tron's hands are covered in the same black material as the rest of him.

Sam's worn the stuff himself. He knows how nonexistent the barrier actually feels, even beneath the tightly-fitted armor that completes the ensemble.

"So strange," Tron murmurs. The words tickle Sam's ear as Tron's hands ghost higher along his back.

"What is?" Sam breathes, sitting back so he can look Tron in the eye. Tron is staring down at his clothes—at the way Sam's shirt is riding up.

"It comes away so easily," says Tron. "Doesn't it make you feel vulnerable?" 

"I never really thought about it that way," Sam admits. Hell, he felt _more_ vulnerable in the skintight getup the Sirens put him in for the arena. But then there was the armor, the helmet, the seamless maneuverability… he supposes he can see where Tron is coming from.

And because Tron looks so fascinated—because he's staring with a light in his eyes that manages to convey both desire and curiosity at the same time—Sam shifts further back and shrugs out of his jacket. The material falls heavily to the floor in a discarded thump, and now Tron's eyes finally find his. There's still curiosity there. And want. And something else that shivers beneath the more obvious surface emotions—something dark and possessive. 

An hour ago, Sam would've doubted himself. He'd have chalked what he thought he saw up to wishful thinking.

But he knows better now. And without breaking eye contact, Sam reaches for the hem of his t-shirt. The idle movements of Tron's hands fall still as Sam slowly, deliberately pulls the fabric up and over his head. When he finally gets free of the material and tosses it aside, he finds Tron's eyes riveted to him with an intensity that could set something on fire.

"Do I look that different?" Sam asks curiously.

"No," says Tron, though his fingers are already tracing reverent patterns across Sam's skin. "Not so different after all." But then his hands slide lower, and Tron's thumb brushes meaningfully over the still open zipper of Sam's jeans. 

"Right," Sam mutters, blushing. "Except for that." He hopes Tron at least grasps the basic theory of human biology. He's not up to explaining the birds and the bees right now. He's mostly just trying to talk himself out of the renewed hard-on that's starting to make him squirm. 

He's pretty sure they don't have time for this. He needs to get moving, figure out what to do about more discreet clothes. Not sit here practically on top of Tron, letting his libido get the best of him.

"Fascinating," says Tron with a teasing twist to his mouth. "But I suppose we don't have time." 

Sam laughs and lets his head thump forward against Tron's shoulder. ' _Fuck that_ ,' he wants to say. ' _Fuck the Grid, let's go again_.' But even in the privacy of his thoughts he doesn't mean that. He knows how badly the Grid needs him. He knows exactly how heavy the burden of responsibility sits on his shoulders. 

They've hidden out long enough for the immediate danger to pass, and for Sam to regain his strength after whatever the hell it was he did on that roof. Now it's time to continue his work.

Sam stands only reluctantly. He presses a few of Tron's brightly lit panels in the process, in a way that could be an accident but totally isn't. The room feels chilly now, probably because he's standing here shirtless and exposed, and he considers the uneven pile of fabric by his feet. 

"I doubt we'll be able to obtain access to an armory," says Tron. "I have some spare gear hidden lower in the building, but I don't know if—"

"No," Sam cuts him off. "Thanks, but… I think I'll be able to manage."

He briefly considers turning away, but decides that modesty at this stage of the game would be pretty silly. Tron's eyes watch him with intense curiosity, and Sam kicks off his socks and shoes. 

He's reaching for his jeans when a strange thought occurs to him, and he pauses and changes trajectory. He reaches behind his back instead, and is surprised to find his identity disc still right where it belongs. He's not sure what he expected—it's not like it would've slid right off with his shirt—but then, shouldn't it have caught in the fabric, somehow? Shouldn't getting his jacket and t-shirt off have been more of an ordeal?

But all those questions are academic, and Sam realizes he's not that surprised. It's his identity disc, after all. It's part of him. What good would the damn thing be if it could come loose as easily as a thin cotton shirt? 

He still wonders about the mechanism. How is it attached? How does it _work_?

But he shrugs those questions aside for the time being. It's enough to know that it _does_ work, and maybe he'll get a chance to figure it out later. Maybe Tron will volunteer to help.

Which drums up more distracting thoughts that Sam doesn't have time to indulge in, and he returns his attention to his already open jeans. He tugs the fabric down his hips, jeans and shorts both, and kicks them carelessly aside.

Which leaves him naked, and he doesn't look up even though he can still feel Tron's eyes watching his every move. He spares an instant to wonder what the security program thinks of the view. Then Sam flexes his fingers, calls a glowing, hovering matrix of raw code into the air, and gets to work.

He thinks about crafting something and donning it after the fact, but rejects the idea quickly. If he's doing this, he might as well go all out, and instead of calling up his new attire into the air in front of him, he sends ripples of code cascading around his body. The code spreads, settles, solidifies into the sleek black material he remembers from his first fall into the Grid. 

He pauses to consider his work, then reaches to grasp his left bicep. A fresh rumble of code pulses over his arm, across his chest, expanding quickly. A sensation both staticky and precise, and then there's the feel of cool, firm material beneath his palm as the armor flickers and fills in. 

He barely has to nudge the code as the rest of the armor settles in place. It spreads gracefully, mechanically, until it's covering his entire body. 

The circuits shiver to life last of all, bright and blue, and a quick graze of his finger tells him they aren't purely camouflage. The effect is a little more authentic than he intended, but the getup should still serve his purposes.

He finally raises his eyes to Tron, and the awe he finds on the program's face is palpable. Sam instantly starts to fidget, and it takes every ounce of self control to make himself still and cross his arms over his chest.

"Come on, man," Sam complains sheepishly. "You worked with my dad for _ages_. Don't tell me a little slight of hand is still that impressive."

Tron shakes his head, looks apologetic for all of a second, then stands. Sam uncrosses his arms as Tron approaches him. He wonders what to make of the mischievous look starting to settle across Tron's features. 

"Are you ready to go?" Tron asks when he's right in front of Sam. But instead of letting Sam answer, he trails his index finger up the broad length of circuit on Sam's left arm.

Sam hisses and grabs at Tron's wrist, and he's not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when Tron lets his hand be diverted. There's a smile tugging at the corner of Tron's lips, and Sam arches his eyebrows. 

"Not if you keep doing that I'm not," he says.

Tron draws his hand back. He doesn't look the slightest bit apologetic as he gestures towards the door.

Sam rolls his eyes, feeling warm and satisfied and, god help him, _happy_ , and he follows where Tron directs.


	6. Chapter 6

They abandon Delta Sector for the time being. 

It's too hot now. There's too much chance of other programs investigating after the all too visible explosion Sam emitted on that rooftop.

As far as Sam can tell, the next most damaged zone is Lambda Sector. He aims his Lightcycle for Epsilon Sector instead, because an unpredictable itinerary is their only real defense against discovery.

Logically, Sam's work should go more slowly now. It should take longer to finish repairs, considering they have to spend more and more time ducking and hiding, running away from the programs that flock more and more quickly to the slowly regenerating Sectors. 

But instead, Sam's pace plateaus out. The Grid is starting to feel like an extension of himself somehow—familiar and solid and real beneath his skin—and repairing the damage feels less like staring at a complicated puzzle and more like… well… _breathing_. Sam's fingers ghost the edges of a damaged archway in Mu Sector and, though the fault lines running through the columns are extensive, he knows instantly what he needs to do. He calls up a matrix on one side, lets instinct dance his fingers over glowing code, and smoothes the damage away in a matter of seconds.

Sam finds Tron watching him after, and his eyes are intense in a way that leaves Sam's chest tight and his face hot. 

He moves on before he can get distracted, and Tron falls into step beside him, arm brushing against Sam's with every step. Even through the heavy fabric of their cloaks, Sam feels his circuits thrill at the contact.

Maybe this authentic armor thing wasn't such a good idea after all.

He repairs a narrow thoroughfare next, then the base of a slim signal pillar that stretches high above the spanning cityscape. Restructurings the interwoven foundation of a rounded domicile tower takes a little longer, but they're still in and out before anyone turns up to investigate.

Sam completes two more sectors before the light of the beacon reactivates. 

"Christ, has it really been twelve hours up there already?" It doesn't feel like he's been on the Grid for a month—he certainly hasn't slept as many times as he did the first time around. Where the hell have those hours gone?

But then he casts his eyes along the horizon. He sees the way the cityscape has transformed from crumbling, fractured chaos into something almost whole, and he supposes it _has_ been as long as all that. 

He glances at Tron—at the knowing look in Tron's eyes—and he's tempted to stay. Quorra will reopen the portal again soon. Now that she's given him his twelve hours (because he knew damn well he wouldn't be leaving any sooner), Quorra will give him two more chances, this time at much shorter intervals.

But despite Sam's reluctance to leave, he knows he has other responsibilities. Tomorrow will be Monday, and Encom is waiting. That battle may feel unreal and disconnected compared to the progress he's making here on the Grid, but Sam knows he can't afford to fuck up now. If nothing else, how owes Alan better than that.

"You have to go," Tron observes.

"Yeah," Sam agrees unhappily. "Come on, we should move fast."

\- — - — - — - — -

  
They fly a larger vehicle to the beacon this time, faster than the Lightjets they took on their previous trip. The vehicle is also more accommodating for conversation. Among other things.

Even at these faster speeds the trip will still take at least three hours, and Sam plans on using every minute to his advantage.

Sam crafted the vehicle himself, and the interior is small but not at all cramped. The compartment is sleek, like the outer contours of the vessel. There are two seats up front (pilot and co-pilot style), though the ship is designed to follow a set trajectory towards the beacon and shouldn't need anyone to steer it. There are proximity alarms—warning alerts that will sound if anything turns up in their path—but Sam's not expecting any interference this far off-Grid.

If anyone intended to ambush them en route to the portal, they'd have done it nearer the shore. As far as Sam knows (and Tron's unconcerned calm seems to confirm), there's no other vehicle on the Grid that could keep up with them now.

Which means that, for once, they have a moment's peace.

"So," Sam says once he's checked their course and swiveled out of the pilot's seat. "Looks like we've got some time to kill." 

He means to approach Tron casually. A slow, maybe even stealthy advance that moves them both closer to the back of the streamlined compartment—more specifically, closer to the floor panel Sam designed, where a broad, spacious bed will emerge if he so much as blinks at it. He means to take his time, is the point—to approach on a trajectory that doesn't make him look as desperate and eager as he feels.

He doesn't get the chance to put his plan into action. Tron is on him too quickly. 

Not that Sam is complaining.

His circuits buzz at the contact, at the strength of Tron's arms as he yanks Sam forward. Tron cups the back of Sam's neck with a forceful hand and brings their mouths together with a ferocity born of impatience. Sam parts his lips, obedient and enthusiastic, and shifts just slightly in Tron's hold. He tilts his head for a better angle and lets Tron's tongue taste the roof of his mouth.

God, it's like a circuit breaker snapping into place. It's energy and want and light, all spinning like chaos in his head, and for a moment all Sam can do is hold on. He can't focus on anything beyond the electric taste of _Tron_ on his tongue, the firm press of Tron's fingers at the base of his skull, the weight of Tron's other hand curved at the small of his back, crushing their bodies together and setting Sam's circuitry alight.

Sam's pretty sure he had a plan here, but hell if he can remember it now. 

When Tron pulls back, he looks just as dazed as Sam feels. His hands hold on a shade too tightly, even after the kiss is broken. Sam still feels the blue-lit panels along his body pulse with arousal at being held so intimately close.

But Sam's got just enough space to think again—to remember that he had a purpose here, and that it involved getting his hands on Tron and seeing what it takes to make him fall to pieces.

Before Tron can distract him again, Sam traces his fingers deliberately down Tron's arm and presses his palm over the brightening circuit just above Tron's elbow.

Tron's eyes close involuntarily, and he breathes a rumbling hiss as pleasure and surprise distort his expression.

The sight speeds Sam's pulse in his chest.

He gives the panel in the floor that _look_ he's been planning on, and the bed rises in a sleek ripple of movement.

Sam doesn't push Tron towards it yet. He sets his free hand on Tron's shoulder instead, and sends a gentle pulse of disrupting energy through the material of Tron's suit. Both suit and armor dissolve beneath his palm, and Sam trails his hand further down, unapologetic and rapt as he watches the pixilated edges of Tron's bodysuit fall away at his touch.

He's not sure what he expects to find beneath. Skin, sure, and there's that in abundance. Panels of light corresponding to Tron's visible circuitry, maybe, though Sam doesn't know exactly _why_ he expects that.

But there's more than just those spare patches of light beneath the dissolving contours of Tron's suit. There's an intricate web of circuits painted across his skin, smooth and sharp and symmetrical. 

The circuits are warm to the touch, and when Sam trails a curious fingertip along one smooth arc, Tron gasps, hands gripping hard enough to bruise. Sam doesn't mind. He wishes the bruises could follow him out of the computer. 

He trails his other hand down Tron's forearm now, turning the black material beneath his palm to pixels and then to nothing. He marvels at how even on Tron's forearm there are intricate lines of circuitry, small squares of power and intersecting angles.

Tron finally lets go of Sam. He stares down at his own arm with a look of surprise that melts quickly to heat as Sam continues to touch him—as Sam's palm passes his wrist, the back of his hand, teasing along his fingers until Tron's skin is bare from elbow to fingertips. 

Then Sam switches direction.

He's in control now. He can feel it in the air. Hell, he can _see_ it in the way Tron blinks and gasps and stares at the teasing progress of Sam's hands along his body. He can tell from the way Tron watches with that stunned, possessive expression as Sam slowly derezzes everything Tron is wearing.

"That's more like it," Sam murmurs when at last he has an unobstructed view. He presses his palm to Tron's chest just to watch blue circuits brighten beneath his touch. Then the experimental press becomes a blatant push, and Tron must be even more out of it than he looks because he stumbles back two steps. He stops when the backs of his legs collide with the bed, and a wicked smile spreads across Sam's face as he gives a second, sturdier shove and watches Tron fall backwards onto the bed.

Sam drops to his knees on the edge of the mattress, and Tron shifts back to make room for him. He reaches out with hands that feel like ownership and tugs Sam farther up the bed. 

"This doesn't seem fair." Tron's voice sounds hungry and dazed. His fingers scrape pleasantly along the circuits of Sam's suit (broader and fewer than the lines decorating Tron's body), and he adds, "You're wearing too much."

Sam laughs, though the sound comes out more of a breathy gasp, and he traces a meandering, blue-lit path from Tron's chest to his stomach.

"First things first," Sam murmurs, thrilling at the way Tron shivers. "I want to look at you."

Tron subsides, but he doesn't let go of Sam. Tron's eyes are half-lidded, and his throat moves in a swallow. His jaw tightens in a way that might mean he's struggling against his own impatience to get his hands all over Sam.

"You're fucking gorgeous, you know that?" Sam says. Appreciation darkens his voice, heats his chest as he lets his eyes take in every inch of the muscular body beneath him. He lets his hands explore, shameless curiousity, and revels in the gasps and arching shivers he draws from Tron in the process.

The surreal lack of an erection between Tron's legs (or any equipment whatsoever) isn't nearly as jarring as Sam expects. Maybe he's had enough time to adjust to the idea. Or maybe it's just that he doesn't care _what_ equipment Tron is (or isn't) packing as long as he keeps looking at Sam like _that_. 

Sam sure as hell can't complain, especially not when Tron responds so intensely to the way Sam is stroking his circuits now.

He maps the glowing lines along Tron's thigh, then shifts higher on the bed so that he can straddle Tron comfortably. He leans in, slow and deliberate, and presses his mouth to the center square of the four brightest lights on Tron's chest.

The power tastes sharp and electric under Sam's tongue, but even more intense is the way Tron arches halfway off the bed, hands grasping at Sam wherever they can get hold. A sharp, wordless shout of pleasure escapes Tron's lips, and Sam smirks against Tron's chest—traces a wicked path with his tongue and sucks a kiss into Tron's skin. 

" _Wait_ ," Tron gasps, and Sam pulls back. He waits as Tron blinks and focuses—as Tron loosens his grip where he's still holding onto Sam.

"This needs to come off _now_ ," Tron growls, and he's glaring at Sam's bodysuit like it's the root of all evil. He looks so serious about it that Sam would laugh if he could—if his own voice weren't stuck in his throat. 

Sam's suit feels strangely unsteady in the spots where Tron is touching him. Sam is still trying to work the sensation out when he realizes patches of the material are dissolving away in those spots—not as smoothly or decisively as Tron's suit fell before Sam's efforts, but dissolving just the same. Sam wonders if that's supposed to happen, or if Tron is breaking the rules of the Grid by sheer force of will.

"Yeah," Sam breathes, surging forward for a kiss even as he slides his hands down his own body in impatient paths. His armor vanishes to nothing, and then it's just the two of them, just naked skin and circuits.

Now that he's got pure, untempered _Tron_ beneath his hands, Sam can't stop touching. He follows the brightly lit circuits by feel, warmth and power rushing along his fingertips, his knuckles, his palms. 

He draws back from the kiss only reluctantly, and then he's licking a path down Tron's body. Across his shoulder, his chest, the gasping curve of his ribs. Sam follows an interconnected path of circuits with his tongue, and the points of intersection offer a spark of extra power every time he changes course.

Christ, he's so turned on right now he can barely breathe.

He changes course again, and starts to move back up Tron's body. The sounds reaching his ears are all an inarticulate jumble, low and ragged and indecipherable—all except the syllables that sound a hell of a lot like Sam's name.

Finally Sam reaches his destination—that unmistakable "T" of lights that lies centered at the base of Tron's throat—and the second Sam's tongue touches that spot, the compartment surges with a pulse of power, unchecked and blindingly bright. Sam feels it pour through him, feels it swell in his own circuits and tighten in his chest, and he gasps against Tron's throat.

It's all he can do to hold himself back from the edge and not come right then and there.

Christ, no wonder Tron wasn't annoyed with him the first time, when Sam came apart so hard he couldn't spare a brain cell for returning the favor. It would be so easy to get swept along in the wave of sensation, and who needs a helping hand after that?

Well, okay, _Sam_ could probably use one soon. He's suddenly not sure why he held back.

Tron blinks up at him sooner than Sam expects. His eyes look lucid and clear, and Sam has all of a second to be surprised before Tron surges up beneath him. Tron grabs him, shoves him to the side, and closes his fingers around Sam's arms—

And quick as that, Sam is pinned by Tron's weight. Tron's hips nudge his legs wider where he's pressed between Sam's thighs, and Tron's mouth closes over Sam's in a rough, needy kiss.

Sam moans into Tron's mouth, and his hips stutter forward.

Christ, he's not going to last long at this rate.

He's surprised all over again when one of Tron's hands closes over his hip and forces him still. Then Tron's other hand closes around Sam's wrist, almost experimentally, and pins it to the mattress beside his head.

" _Fuck_ ," Sam breathes, clenching his eyes shut and swallowing hard. He arches against the bed, struggling for the friction Tron's strength is denying him, and his face feels flushed.

When he finally manages to open his eyes, he finds Tron watching him with blatant heat and a more subtle curiosity.

"You like it when I hold you down," Tron observes. His tone _could_ signify a question, but it's obvious he already knows the answer.

"God yes," Sam groans, struggling against the commanding strength of Tron's hands just to be sure there's no give. Just to prove to himself there's nothing he can do to dislodge Tron's hold.

Now there's smugness in Tron's eyes, and Sam almost expects him to grin and say, ' _Good_.'

But there's only silence. A sudden spark of fresh tension permeates the air, and Sam's cock throbs impatiently. A long, taut moment passes, and Sam can't bring himself to speak. He knows somehow, instinctively, that Tron intends to break this silence.

"Tell me what else Users do."

"Oh, Jesus," Sam groans. He squeezes his eyes shut as Tron's words send a fresh swell of arousal through him. He wonders if he could come just from the sound of Tron's voice—just from the things Tron is saying, the promise poured into every word.

He probably could. He's damn close right now.

He swallows hard and struggles to find his voice—to find some semblance of control despite the rush of desire spiraling through him.

When he opens his eyes, he finds Tron staring at his face. The look in Tron's eyes is bright and heated.

Sam twists his hand where Tron has him pinned, and this time Tron loosens his hold. He doesn't relent his grasp on Sam's hip though. He seems to understand that if he does, Sam will be gone and spent in a matter of seconds, and neither of them wants the moment to end just yet.

In the loosening circle of Tron's fingers, Sam turns his wrist. He traces his thumb across Tron's palm, and though Tron's gaze doesn't falter from his, Sam doesn't miss the small shiver his touch elicits. Tron's focus is a warm weight that leaves Sam's pulse racing and his breath lodged low in his chest, and Sam's skin flushes as he takes Tron's hand and guides it towards his mouth.

Tron follows the wordless urging, confusion and curiosity melting into the desire Sam sees on his face. Then Sam takes two of Tron's fingers into his mouth, and the confusion vanishes and leaves raw, fascinated heat in its wake. 

Tron looks stunned, Sam notes as he hollows his cheeks. He trails his tongue over Tron's cool flesh, over the warmer buzz of circuits that run the length of the digits. Sam's chest feels tight and hot, his cock heavy with want, and god, he didn't realize how badly he needed this until right this moment. 

He feels almost bereft when he finally parts his lips and releases Tron's fingers, but he doesn't hesitate to urge Tron's hand lower. He shifts so that there's enough space between them for him to guide Tron's hand between his legs, to find that spot and—

"Push one of your fingers inside," Sam says. 

Tron does.

Sam thinks he might be swearing, but it's hard to be sure through the pounding rush of his own pulse roaring in his ears. His breath comes in a choked gasp, and his whole body tries to arch off the bed. He doesn't get far—not with Tron's weight still pinning him down and Tron's hand still bracing him at the hip—but the pleasure is instant and overwhelming, and in a disconnected corner of his brain Sam realizes Tron is pressing his finger even deeper. He's stroking Sam somewhere deep and intimate, in a way that's curious and clever and making Sam's stomach twist tight.

It takes Sam a moment to realize his eyes are closed. Opening them requires monumental effort, and when he does he finds Tron staring down at him. Tron's expression is rapt, his lips are parted, his eyes wide and stunned and hungry.

Tron freezes when their gazes lock. His finger stills. He blinks and breathes in short, shallow breaths.

Then something glints behind his eyes—something mischievous and dangerous—and he withdraws, pulling his hand back. Then, before Sam can protest his retreat, Tron reenters with a second finger beside the first.

Sam _knows_ he's swearing now. He's gasping and cursing and shouting Tron's name as the program's fingers work him open. The world has gone blurry and disconnected, held together by nothing but the weight of Tron's eyes, the weight of his hand on Sam's hip, the sensation of Tron's fingers twisting and stroking inside him.

Fuck, it's been so long since anyone has touched him like this. 

Sam's just figuring out how to focus through the onslaught of sensation—just beginning to wonder if he can muster the coordination to drag Tron down and kiss him—when Tron's fingers find Sam's prostate and send a sharp jolt of pleasure through him. Sam gasps and arches beneath Tron's weight. He sees a flash of stars, only it turns out it's not stars at all, it's the lines of circuitry on Tron's body pulsing white-hot at the edge of Sam's vision.

Fuck, if Tron is that close just from watching him, Sam can only imagine what _he_ looks like right now.

Tron hits that spot again (deliberately this time), and Sam gasps sharply. He's only peripherally aware of anything beyond that point of contact: of his chest rising and falling in ragged pants, his hands clutching at Tron's biceps with bruising fingers, the muscles of his thighs twitching and tense. 

Then Tron goes still again, and Sam swears even more colorfully than before. 

Tron's fingers are still buried deep inside him, deliberate and unmoving. Sam's attempts to rock his hips—to fuck himself on Tron's fingers, since Tron is suddenly refusing to help—are no match for the stubborn, bruising hold Tron still has on Sam's hip.

Sam glares upwards, expecting to find mischief and smugness in Tron's face.

He finds instead an untempered urgency, intense and sharp and bright enough to match the swelling glow of circuits along Tron's skin.

"What is it?" Sam asks. His voice sounds breathless and desperate.

"There's more, isn't there," says Tron. 

He means between Users. He means more than this, as though Sam could ever need _more_ when he has Tron touching him this way. 

Sam tries to get his thoughts together enough to give a coherent answer. It's difficult to do with Tron's fingers in his ass.

"Yeah, there's more," Sam finally says. His voice still sounds unsteady, but it's better than the breathy gasps from moments before. "It's..." He swallows. "It can be different between men and women, but with men—" He trails off on a curse as Tron's fingers shift inside him, then bites his lower lip hard. It's almost a full minute before he manages to finish, "After a little loosening up, you could put your cock where those fingers are right now." 

God, he hopes Tron knows the word cock. He hopes he doesn't have to get into the details, because he's not sure he has the brainpower to manage it right now. 

Tron doesn't ask for clarification, though. He just looks… god, he almost looks _sad_ , and Sam can't figure out why.

It comes clear when Tron finally speaks.

"I'm not equipped to do that for you."

Which, Christ, that makes Sam's imagination kick off into dangerous territory. He's suddenly imagining what it would be like to have Tron pressed along his back, holding him down with both hands, cock filling Sam with rough thrusts, and the thoughts are making it a little difficult to focus.

But Sam doesn't need that. What he needs is for Tron to stop looking at him that way—like he's somehow deficient in Sam's eyes—and Sam growls, "Do I really look like I give a fuck about that?"

And Tron's grip must have loosened, because this time when Sam rocks his hips he manages to force Tron's fingers deeper. He manages to find a scrap of friction for his desperate cock before Tron's arm drapes over his stomach and pins him down hard. 

Tron watches him with assessing eyes, wondering and thoughtful, and then Tron is repositioning his fingers. Shifting them out just far enough to, _oh fuck_ , introduce a third. 

And then. God. _Then_. Then Tron slides down the bed and takes Sam's cock into his mouth.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Sam gasps. Tron's hair is soft beneath his hands, and Tron's fingers in his ass are moving again, and suddenly Sam can't even breathe.

He can't possibly last. He tries, wants to never stop feeling like this, but it's too much. The surge of power builds beneath his skin, rises and shatters and pours out of him in an explosion of light and energy.

And then, gradually, he remembers how to breathe.

\- — - — - — - — -

  
"How did you know to do that?" Sam asks when the world finally shifts back into focus. 

He's lying on his side with Tron pressed along his back, Tron's arms tucked around him, protective and unyielding. Sam's not sure exactly how much time has passed, and he doesn't particularly want to know. He'd rather not think about their approaching proximity to the beacon, or how soon he's going to have to say goodbye.

It will only be a matter of days from his side of the screen, and the idea still leaves an unpleasant pit in his stomach. He can't imagine what it will be like in here, waiting months on end for the portal to open.

But Tron is answering his question, and Sam focuses on the program's voice, shutting out any less pleasant thoughts for the time being.

"It seemed logical," Tron says. He almost sounds smug. 

"Well aren't _you_ a prodigy," Sam mutters, except he's really not complaining. 

"You liked it, then?" Tron asks. 

Sam laughs, tucking his head down in an attempt to bury the sound in his shoulder.

"Yes," he says. " _God_ yes. Best blowjob I've ever had." He imagines the brief flicker of confusion on Tron's face at the unfamiliar term, but Tron doesn't ask for clarification. Sam imagines the definition is probably pretty evident at this point. 

Breathing a contented sigh, Sam presses deliberately back against Tron's body. He drapes an arm over the one Tron has curled around his stomach, and traces his thumb over the blue-lit circuits on the back of Tron's hand.

Tron inhales sharply at the touch, and his arm tightens, pulling Sam harder against his chest. 

"How long do we have?" Sam murmurs, already shifting in Tron's arms.

"About two tenths of a millicycle." 

An hour and a half, Sam's brain supplies grudgingly. Not nearly enough time.

Sam finishes twisting around in Trons arms, and though the movement is awkward, the end result is that he can look Tron in the eye. He can see the barely banked hunger beneath the program's humoring expression. He can feel the slim blue circuits flaring warm beneath his palms.

He presses his lips to Tron's throat, lets his fingers drift with purpose, and doesn't count the minutes.

\- — - — - — - — -

  
The glowing, hovering platform Sam built on his previous trip is still there when they reach the beacon, and their vessel sets down smooth and easy at the far corner of the landing strip. 

Sam re-rezzes his own bodysuit and armor first, then does the same for Tron. Unhappy reluctance twists in his chest as he watches Tron's skin and circuits disappear beneath the dark material.

God, he doesn't want to go. Not yet.

"Do you know how long you'll have to stay away?" Tron asks.

"Longer this time," Sam says. "There are things I need to do at Encom. It's barely my dad's company anymore. I need to get things back on track." 

Tron nods as though that makes sense. Sam still wishes he didn't have to leave.

"You won't get into trouble while I'm gone, will you?" Sam asks, giving Tron a piercing look. When Tron arches a skeptical eyebrow at him, Sam presses, "I'm serious. I don't want you getting hurt. Just… try not to get into any fights until I'm back, okay?"

"I'm a security program, Sam."

"And I'm Sam-fucking-Flynn, and I say you're not allowed to get yourself killed while I'm on the wrong side of the computer screen." 

Tron regards him for a moment, quiet and oddly serene. Finally he says, "I will be careful."

"You better be," says Sam.

He heads toward the door—toward the platform outside and the portal beyond—but stops when Tron moves deliberately into his path. Tron's arm blocks Sam's way, his palm slamming flat against the wall. Tron's face is close to his, eyes bright with heat, and Sam finds himself holding his breath.

"I want you to think about something," Tron says. His voice is low and rough. "I want you to consider reprogramming me again." 

"What?" Sam flails internally. "Why? You're fine now, aren't you? Rinzler's gone, he hasn't surfaced since I got back."

"You're right. This has nothing to do with Rinzler." 

A distant part of Sam's mind is relieved at the way Tron says that name—the confidence with which he seems able, finally, to separate himself from Clu's right-hand monster—but most of Sam's thoughts are focused on more pressing matters. If something else is wrong with Tron's code, then it's on Sam to fix the problem.

But Tron's gaze isn't concerned. It isn't tight with apprehension or shadowed with fear.

Tron's gaze is nothing but heat, his body crowding in on Sam and making his pulse race. 

"I don't understand," Sam finally admits.

"If you can reprogram the physical structure of the Grid," Tron says, "then you can reprogram the physical structure of other things as well."

Sam thinks that through, trying to follow the statement to a logical conclusion. But beyond the Grid itself, what physical structures could Tron be—

Oh.

"You've got to be kidding," Sam says, though his voice sounds heavy and serious. Tron meets his eyes steadily, and Sam protests, "I don't even know _how_ to give you a cock, man."

"Yes you do."

Sam thinks about it a minute and has to concede, "Okay, you're right. I think I know how to do that. But are you sure? I told you I don't need that and… frankly, I think I've messed with your code enough already."

He expects an argument, but instead Tron grabs him by the arms and shoves him against the wall. Tron's mouth is demanding, his tongue sliding possessively past Sam's lips as his hands move to cup Sam's jaw. Sam gasps into the kiss, and his hands settle high on Tron's chest as Tron lays rough, irrefutable claim to his mouth. 

Christ, where did a security subroutine learn to kiss like this?

When Tron pulls back, Sam's head is spinning. His skin feels tight and hot, and his lips are parted on a soundless gasp. 

He's pretty sure they were disagreeing about something, but at the moment he can't remember what.

"I want to fuck you, Sam Flynn."

Oh. Right. That was it.

"You make a compelling argument," Sam concedes. His voice is thick with gravel. 

"Then you'll think about it?" Tron presses.

Sam nods.

Tron releases him, then, sharp and sudden. He steps back from Sam with a jolt, as though he needs to do it quickly or he won't be able to let go.

Sam knows the feeling. 

"You should go while you can," Tron says. He means while the portal is still open. He means before one of them changes his mind. 

"Right," says Sam. "Yes. Time to go." He moves for the door faster than necessary, and he pointedly doesn't turn to look at Tron.

He can hear Tron following him, just like he can feel Tron's eyes on his back as he steps up to the cascading column of light at the center of the platform. 

Sam throws a last, reckless look over his shoulder. He nods. Tron nods back. Sam knows there's nothing more he needs to say. The sooner he steps into that beam, the sooner he can do what he has to in the real world.

The sooner he can come back here, to a world that's come to be just as real.

The light washes over him when he steps forward. It closes around him, pulls his disc from his hands, and sends the world spinning.


	7. Chapter 7

Even with Encom—even with Alan at his side every step of the way—the work-week Sam spends outside the Grid is so slow it hurts.

Five days. It feels like an eternity. Sam realizes he's being melodramatic, but that doesn't stop him wanting to return to the Grid. 

It's not just Tron. It's the Grid itself. Sam's repairs are so close to complete, and that vivid world needs him so much more than this one.

It's _mostly_ Tron, of course. Sam spends more than one board meeting fantasizing about the smooth lines of Tron's code, mentally working out which parts will need tweaking to fulfill Tron's parting request. Because of course Sam is going to say yes. 

He catches Alan watching him worriedly a couple times, but Alan doesn't call him out yet, and Sam is grateful. He's not looking forward to the conversation, inevitable though it may be, where he has to admit to Alan that he's got someone in his life now. Alan will be happy for him until he realizes that Sam 'someone' is a computer program. 

The fact that Tron wears the man's own face will probably bother Alan a lot less than the fact that Sam has taken a lover on the Grid. He'll have to show Alan one day, if Sam's to have any hope of making him understand.

At night, before he gives in to the inevitable need for sleep, Sam sits at the computer and keeps right on working. It's different from this side of the screen, but there's still plenty of good he can do. It's easier to see the Grid as a unified structure from out here, intricate pieces of a carefully crafted whole. 

The underlying fragmentation of the system is easier to smooth out when Sam has a map and a keyboard in front of him, and by Friday the structural damage is all but gone.

Sam still hasn't given the system the hard reboot it needs. He wants to do that just before he goes back in. He wants to be able to get his hands on everything in person, in case the process goes wrong. Not that it will. Sam is his father's son. No one knows computers like him.

He sleeps restlessly that night. Quorra will meet him in the morning. She'll be his reliable safety net once again.

But for tonight Sam is anxious and impatient, and his dreams are full of blue and yellow light.

\- — - — - — - — -

  
Sam reboots the system as planned, just before initiating the laser sequence to send him back inside.

When he reenters the Grid, he sets down next to the building he's come to think of as Tron's home—the hideaway Tron took him to after Delta Sector's horrible confrontation.

Tron emerges from the structure with a smile on his face.

"Greetings, program," Sam says, grinning as he crosses the open street and reaches for Tron.

"Welcome back." Tron trails familiar fingers over the circuit on Sam's right bicep. Sam's modified attire glows brighter, and Tron's touch feels amazing. Not to mention distracting as hell. 

Sam intended to get straight to work, but now he's reconsidering.

He kisses Tron, deep and eager, and when he opens his eyes he finds Tron's circuits pulsing brightly.

"I thought about what you said," Sam murmurs. The words make Tron's circuits flash dazzlingly.

"And did you reach a decision?" Tron's eyes are dark with fresh intensity.

"I did. There's just one thing I need to know."

Tron tilts his head to the side, curious and expectant, and Sam smiles wider before leaning in close to whisper in Tron's ear.

"Do you have any preference about size?"

He doesn't get to hear Tron's response. There's a sudden fluctuation in the air—a pulse of something _off_ , like a warning, registering to Sam's senses with a jolt. He moves without thinking, shoving Tron back with the full weight of his body and landing them both on the smooth, flawless pavement.

An instant later a shriek of light cuts through the space above them, humming through the air and then swinging back the way it came.

Sam twists on top of Tron, contorting to look over his shoulder just in time to see an unfamiliar program catch the disc flying back to her hand.

She's tall and sturdy. Her hair is white. And in seconds she's joined by half a dozen other programs.

"Oh, hell," Sam breathes, moving off of Tron and bracing himself in a low crouch. He takes out his disc, and the circle sparks to life in his hand. To his left he hears the low snap and hum of Tron drawing his own disc and separating it into his dual weapons. Sam glances over, and Tron's expression is cryptic just before he activates his helmet, face disappearing beneath the smooth, opaque contours. 

Tron nods at him, and Sam nods back, and then there's nothing but the cool adrenaline of battle.

By the time they've taken out the first seven programs, a dozen more have emerged from corners and alleys and narrow streets. Sam's circuits flare with the energy of combat, and he doesn't dare stop moving. His world constricts to the fractured sound of shattering pixels as he takes down one attacker after another, and still the programs keep coming. 

He's constantly aware of Tron's location on the street that has become their battlefield. He can feel it in the surrounding code, the same way he can feel the increasing numbers of the programs boxing them in.

They just keep coming. Christ, there's no end to them.

Sam fights dirty. He doesn't confine himself to his identity disc or the weapons he collects from derezzed programs. He uses every programming advantage he has, manipulating the landscape, fucking with the physics of the Grid, sucking the energy straight out of his attackers with his bare hands. At one point he topples a building on an approaching swarm of well-armed enemies.

He feels a twinge of regret at the destruction, but he can always repair the structure later. His own skin is a different matter.

No matter how many dirty tricks he uses—no matter how well he fights or how many enemies Tron takes out with his dual discs—eventually they're completely surrounded. 

The fighting draws to a grudging stop, and Sam and Tron stand back to back at the center of the street. 

"We're screwed, aren't we?" Sam's eyes sweep the surrounding street, and he can't even count the programs. There are too many of them. 

"We're in trouble," Tron concedes.

Sam tightens his grip, and his disc hums louder in his hand. He wonders how long they'll be able to hold out before one of them goes down. He wonders how fast the other will follow.

Anger rushes behind his ribs, ragged and furious. He's not supposed to go out like this. It's not fucking fair.

He's not sure what draws his attention up, away from the street. There's no sudden movement, no flash of light. There's nothing but a sudden jolt of instinct that makes him raise his eyes, gaze following the sweeping stretch of the nearest tower. 

The roofs have been empty up until now. The fight has been going on in closer quarters, on street level. But when Sam's gaze reaches the very top of the edifice, he sees a single program standing there.

It's difficult to make out the face at this distance. Sam squints and tries to figure out who it is he's looking at.

His eyes widen when he figures it out. 

" _Perl_ ," he gasps.

"What are you—?" Tron begins to ask, but trails off without finishing the question. He must see what Sam is now seeing. 

Programs have begun moving out of concealment along the rooftops, one after another, all shapes and colors and designs. Soon their numbers go from dozens to hundreds. Sam feels his pulse clamor quicker in his chest, and he wonders if this means they're going to die even faster than he realized.

But the attackers on street level have noticed now, and from the perplexed way they stare up at the new arrivals, Sam guesses this wasn't part of the plan.

"Greetings, programs," Perl's voice echoes down to the street. There's irony in his tone, and his words carry loud and strong, as though artificially amplified. "I don't want to alarm anyone, but we have you completely surrounded. You will desist your attack and surrender, or the consequences will be quite dire."

Shouting instantly erupts from the mob filling the street. Choruses of ' _Never_!' and ' _Death first_!' as the throng springs back into motion. The attack renews with exhausting fervor, and it's all Sam can do to keep up as the surrounding swarm closes in.

He keeps his back to Tron. They're strongest together, and Tron's discs fly flawlessly as Sam quickly discards traditional weapons. Sam puts his own disc away, instinct guiding him past conscious thought. With a disconnected pulse and cool detachment, Sam tears into the very code of the attacking programs, with nothing but his thoughts.

It feels like slow, angry work, but around him the nearest programs (all but Tron) dissolve in a sparkling shatter of pixels without Sam laying a hand on them. He repeats the trick when a second wave closes in, and this time his head spins, his vision blacking out for a second so that he misses the moment of dissolution. 

"Be careful," Tron admonishes sharply. "You can't afford to drain yourself now."

He's right. Sam curses and draws his disc again. Exhaustion drags at his limbs, but he knows better than to stop moving.

There are programs fighting amongst themselves now. The figures from the rooftops have made their way down to the street, and Sam can't even tell who's winning. Programs are derezzing left and right, screams and shattering and violence everywhere, and Sam spins and dodges another attack. He doesn't get the chance to throw a returning volley at his attacker. Tron's disc is already there.

Sam comes around fast, eyes scanning the crowd for a fresh target. It's harder now. There are two sides to contend with, and no one is coming directly at him. 

Then a sharp sense of pure, immediate _Danger_ spikes through him, and Sam spins on his heel.

There are six programs converging on Tron at once, coordinated and quick. Tron has to have noticed them, but there's no way he'll be fast enough to evade them all at once. Not with his back half-turned. Not with his discs still out of his hands, returning in wide arcs and leaving him vulnerable. It will only take a matter of seconds for the six attackers to drop him.

" _No_!" Sam shouts, power throbbing like a nova of raw desperation in his chest. The power settles behind his ribs, bright and sharp, and twists tight before ricocheting through his body. Light throbs raggedly in the space around him—it's coming _from_ him, he realizes disjointedly—and as Sam throws himself at Tron the world slows to a crawl.

He thinks it's an illusion at first. Adrenaline sending his heart racing, bringing everything into stark focus in the instant before the unthinkable happens. But no, another step and he realizes everything really _is_ slowing down. The flying discs, the flailing limbs, the punches and kicks and swinging light batons. Everything has slowed to a snail's pace.

Everything but him.

Sam doesn't overthink his advantage. The drain of energy tugs at him, and he hurries all the faster. He's all too aware that though those discs are moving slowly now, they're still moving, and he has a finite stretch of time to put himself where he needs to be.

He hits Tron at top speed, knocking him aside and out of the line of fire. The six discs close in by increments, and Sam reaches for them. His hand surges with light, white like the impossible glow pouring from the rest of his body—visible evidence of the energy he's burning—and when he touches the first disc, his fingers pass through it. The circle shatters in slow motion, glittering pieces flying in all directions, and an instant later the program that threw it comes apart the same way.

Sam doesn't think. He just sweeps his arm towards the next disc, and his touch slides through it just like the first. He does it again, and again, until all six discs are nothing but debris and their programs are just more glittering rubble accumulating on the street.

He turns when the way is clear, and with a surreal jerk of motion time around him resumes. He can barely see through the overwhelming rush of light (is that coming from him?), can't think through the winding chaos in his chest. His eyes search for Tron, and he finds the security program already regaining his feet. Tron's helmet is down (Sam's got no idea when that happened), and he stares at Sam with wide, shocked eyes.

" _Sam_!" Tron shouts, moving for him.

Sam opens his mouth to say something reassuring, but the words get lost in a blinding, deafening, numbing pulse of light as that tightly wound coil of energy in Sam's chest bursts free.

Tron is running to him faster now, and for an instant everything is white.

Then Sam's legs give out beneath him, darkness pens him in, and everything is gone.

\- — - — - — - — -

  
Sam opens his eyes to stillness.

He has no sense of how long he was out, though he's surprised he doesn't hear the same fierce battle raging around him. He blinks, trying to bring his eyes into focus. It takes him several tries.

It's Tron's face he sees first. Close and worried, and blocking out nearly everything else in Sam's field of vision. 

"Are you all right?" Tron asks. Fingers tighten on Sam's arm, and Sam realizes he's practically lying in Tron's lap. Tron's arms are supporting him, cradling him in a way that Sam might find embarrassing if his head weren't spinning towards a migraine. Sam's whole body feels hollowed out and weak, and when he tries to sit up he finds the effort beyond him.

"What happened?" he asks.

Tron gives him a wry look, eyebrows arching high despite the concern still evident in his face.

"I was hoping you could tell us that."

"Us?" Sam blinks, trying to sort through the confusion muddling his thoughts.

Tron's eyes cut away from him then, and settle somewhere more distant. There's a calculated intensity that makes Sam think he's exchanging looks with someone.

"Do you think you can stand?" Tron asks, dropping his eyes once more to Sam.

"Not alone," Sam admits, reluctant but honest. 

Tron helps him easily, his impressive strength not the slightest bit depleted by the recently ( _how_ recently, Sam wonders) concluded skirmish. Sam's feet slip unsteadily, and it takes him a moment to figure out why. The ground in all directions is covered in a glittering carpet of fractured data. Derezzed programs, Sam realizes. Everywhere. 

There's nowhere to step that will avoid them, but finally Sam finds his footing.

He leans heavily on Tron. Sam's arm is braced over Tron's shoulders, and Tron's arm holds tight and protective around Sam's waist. Finally Sam raises his eyes from the ground. 

It's Perl he finds standing before them, a multitude of programs spreading out behind him. The street is full of programs, still standing and intact, all watching Sam with a reverence that makes his insides squirm.

"We won, then?" Sam asks softly. His words are a whisper meant for Tron's ears alone.

"Yes." Tron murmurs the word so close his lips brush Sam's ear. "The fighting stopped soon after your little spectacle. The few remaining combatants surrendered to Perl's forces. They've been disarmed and detained."

"Sorry I missed it."

Perl approaches with measured steps. Cautious and, Sam realizes with a start, limping slightly. Injured in the battle, then, though his face bears a placid, genuine smile.

"Son of Flynn." Perl's words ring with confidence, and loudly enough to carry to the circling throng. When he reaches Sam he drops awkwardly to one knee, and his voice carries the same heavy tone as he says, "We are yours to command."

"Please stand up," Sam says, suddenly uncomfortable. 

Perl obeys, but too quickly. He keeps his eyes downcast. Sam doesn't like it. He doesn't like the quiet awe he can feel permeating the street, and he definitely doesn't like the change in Perl's demeanor. He prefers the cheeky, insolent flirt to the deferential program standing before him now.

"I don't want to command anyone," Sam says tightly. "I just want to finish repairing the Grid. I want this place to be somewhere you can _live_ again."

"But this world is yours," Perl says. 

Tron stays infuriatingly silent and is no help at all.

"It's yours, too," Sam says. "I don't want you to worship me. Christ, Perl, it's just _me_. Would you stop staring at the ground?"

Perl raises his eyes. "You're a User," he points out needlessly.

"I was a User before. Why are you behaving so differently now?"

"Because he's seen what you can do," Tron says softly.

Sam stares, gaze darting back and forth between the two programs. He doesn't even try to mask the confusion on his face.

"You set the sky aflame and moved the very city beneath us," Perl says. "You shattered the flow of time itself."

"I did?" Sam blinks. He remembers the time thing, but the rest is news to him. He glances at Tron for confirmation. Tron nods once, and Sam can see why maybe he passed out. 

"You could unmake this city with a thought," Perl says.

Sam's pretty sure it would take more than just a thought, but he doesn't refute the program's point. It's actually some pretty solid logic. That doesn't make Sam any more comfortable with the way the lingering crowd is staring at him.

"But I won't," Sam says, and the words feel like a promise. "I don't want you to be afraid of me."

Perl smiles, then. It's a different sort of smile from the one he was wearing before. This one is sharp and bright and looks almost mischievous. It's a hell of a lot closer to the Perl Sam has grown accustomed to.

"Nevertheless," says Perl. "We _are_ yours to command. How else are we to help you finish restoring the Grid?"

\- — - — - — - — -

  
Even after the crowd has dispersed and left Sam alone in the street with Tron, Sam can't quite wrap his head around everything that just happened.

Tron is a steady line of support along his side, arm an inescapable, protective band around Sam's waist, and Sam is grateful for the fact that Tron still hasn't let go of him. He feels like a battery drained to almost nothing. He's pretty sure his legs wouldn't support him right now, and with every moment his eyelids droop heavier.

"It's really over, isn't it," Sam says. His gaze traverses the now vacant street, and his circuits glow dull with exhaustion.

"Yes." 

"They won't be fighting us anymore. I can finish my work without expecting an attack around every corner."

"Well," says Tron, tone cautious. "There's no reason to sacrifice prudence."

But he doesn't disagree, and a relieved smile edges across Sam's face.

The smile fades as his gaze drifts lower and takes in the actual surface of the street. He and Tron stand ankle deep in the glittering remnants of derezzed programs, and the thought sends an unpleasant shiver along Sam's spine. The entire block is covered in every direction, as far as Sam can see, and he swallows past a suddenly dry throat.

"How many dead?" he asks in a tight voice. He turns and finds Tron wearing a somber expression. Tron's mouth is a hard, thin line, and his eyes are shadowed with regret.

"An exact count would be impossible," Tron hedges without meeting Sam's eyes.

"Ballpark," Sam presses.

Tron delays in answering, but from the way his eyes go momentarily distant Sam can tell evasiveness isn't what's causing the delay. Tron is trying to calculate as accurate a tally as he can manage. Sam doesn't interrupt.

Finally Tron meets Sam's eyes and says, "Seven hundred. Maybe more."

Sam's eyes close at the number, and his chest tightens uncomfortably.

A horrible little voice in the back of his head reminds him that the dead were computer programs, not people.

But the thought doesn't make Sam feel better about all this destruction. If anything it makes everything worse. Sam wouldn't feel this slick, guilty sense of responsibility for people. Not the way he does for the citizens of the Grid.

"Come on," Tron murmurs. His voice is low and reassuring in Sam's ear, and Sam opens his eyes. "Let's get you inside. You need to rest."

Sam means to nod in agreement. He means to start moving for the edge of the street, albeit with Tron's support along the way.

Instead, his efforts are interrupted by a fresh wave of exhaustion. The street blurs around the edges, dimming and slipping away, and then there's nothing at all.

\- — - — - — - — -

  
Sam wakes in Tron's bed, and he feels rested enough that a good deal of time must have passed.

Tron isn't in the bed beside him, but Sam knows he's close. Even as he turns to the side, dragging his eyes from the blank ceiling, he knows he'll find the security program near at hand. 

He's not wrong. By the time Sam's gaze finds him, Tron has already reached the bed, moving to kneel beside Sam on the smooth, yielding surface of the mattress. 

"How do you feel?" Tron asks, leaning into Sam's space and tracing familiar fingers along his jaw.

"Terrific," Sam murmurs, smiling as he nuzzles into the touch. 

"Good." A spark of mischief lights in Tron's eyes. "Then we have unfinished business to attend to."

"What—?"

But Tron kisses him faster than Sam can voice the question, and Sam opens his mouth and welcomes him. He arches back, groaning at the sensation as Tron's hands pin him down, as Tron's tongue darts past his lips to taste and claim territory Sam has already happily surrendered.

Sam makes a disappointed noise when Tron draws back and stops kissing him, but Tron's hands are firm and strong, and Sam can't follow his retreat.

"There's no hurry, Sam," Tron says with a smirk. Then leaning in deliberately, Tron murmurs in Sam's ear, "I believe you have some code to modify before we continue on this path." His lips brush the shell of Sam's ear with the words, a quiet tease, and Sam gasps as renewed anticipation settles bright and heavy in his chest.

Christ, with everything that happened on the street below, he'd all but forgotten.

"Okay," Sam breathes.

Tron releases him abruptly, shifting down the bed just far enough to give Sam space to sit up. Tron waits patiently on his knees, eyes flashing with intent and mouth curling in a sharp-edged smile. When Sam is upright, Tron reaches for his disc and, without separating it into two, holds it out before him so that Sam can work.

Sam sits with his legs crossed, his brow knit with focus as he calls up the now-familiar matrix. He twists and manipulates the network of information, careful not to interfere with the precious strings of code that define Tron's personality and battle skills. He homes quickly in on the physical parameters and sensory input commands necessary for the changes Sam intends.

When he's finished, Sam spins the matrix one last time, gradual and thorough, checking to make sure he didn't fuck anything up. Then he backs out of the interface entirely, watching as the image glowing above the disc flickers away.

He rises to his knees and says, "You should probably brace yourself. This shouldn't be as intense as last time, but anything is possible."

He hopes it won't be as intense as last time. Burning out the broken vestiges of the corrupt Rinzler programming looked painful as hell, and Sam's pretty sure watching Tron convulse and shake apart in his arms like that again will probably ruin the mood.

But Tron holds Sam's gaze steadily as he reaches to lock the disc in place, and except for a bright flaring of blue behind his eyes (one that pulses three times and then fades quickly away) nothing seems to happen.

But when Tron drops his hand, his eyes widen. Before Sam can ask if it worked, Tron has tackled him back onto the bed. Sam's whole body gives ground like it's instinct, subsiding beneath Tron's weight, spreading his legs so that Tron's strong, slim form can settle between his thighs. Right where he belongs.

Sam himself has been hard since Tron first touched his face. Now, as he arches against the line of Tron's body in search of friction, Sam realizes his recoding efforts were successful. The way Tron is pressing against him now, Sam can feel (even through their bodysuits and armor) that Tron is right there with him.

It sends a heady thrill spinning through him, a sensation that only intensifies when Sam remembers—when he realizes what comes next.

Tron is going to fuck him.

Oh god. Tron is going to _fuck_ him. Sam didn't think he needed more than he was getting from the security program. He still thinks he could have spent an eternity content with the way things already were between them. But the idea of Tron inside him is making Sam's breath come in ragged gasps. He feels lightheaded, and his skin tingles everywhere with the crushing volume of _want_ in his blood.

Tron is going to fuck him, and if they don't get to that part fast Sam's going to go out of his mind.

He can't get them naked nearly as fast as he wants to, but he still manages the trick in almost record time. Tron stills when the last of the dark material between them has dissolved away. He props himself up and looks down at their bodies, eyes wide and almost studious.

Sam finds his attention captured by the familiar crisscross of glowing circuits detailing Tron's body. His own chest seems awkwardly bare by comparison, though Tron gives no indication that he minds. Anyway, at the moment Tron is busy staring at other things. At the way their cocks curve towards each other, brushing together in a maddening tease that leaves Sam's pulse speeding sharply in his chest.

"Good enough?" Sam asks. He intends the remark to be light, but it comes out breathy and rough. Tron's eyes snap sharply to his face, and Sam sees heat and gratitude mixing in that look, swirling into a mess that looks a whole lot like love.

Tron shifts between Sam's legs then, bringing himself up onto his knees and sitting nearly upright. He braces one arm beside Sam's head, palm flat against the mattress, and with his other hand—

Sam opens his mouth readily for the two fingers Tron presses to his lips. 

"You'll tell me if I get it wrong," Tron murmurs when he pulls his hand away and reaches between Sam's legs. His eyes are confident, though, and bright with intent. Sam doubts he'll have to give any pointers along the way.

His legs spread wider at the first nudge of Tron's fingers, and Sam's face flushes hot—not at the touch, but at the intensity of Tron's attention. Tron is watching him with a sharp focus that sets off a deep, warm ache in Sam's chest. And when Tron presses one finger inside—when Sam gasps and arches back at the intimate touch—Tron's eyes flash blue with fire.

Sam reaches for Tron, instinct and heat guiding his hands as his fingers graze the circuits along Tron's chest. He tugs at Tron's shoulders, urging him down, urging him _closer_. And though Tron's strength is too potent for Sam to truly pull him off balance, Tron drops anyway, accepting and claiming the kiss Sam offers. Tron presses a second finger into Sam's body, and Sam breaks from the kiss with a sharp gasp of pleasure.

His body adjusts quickly to the intrusion of two fingers, faster by far than it would in the real world, and Sam rocks down on Tron's hand, urging him deeper. Tron complies, but slowly. His touch is a maddening tease, cautious and exploring, and Sam curses. 

"You don't have to be so damn careful," he growls, trying again to urge Tron deeper.

But Tron just smiles at him, conniving and calm, and holds Sam steady as he sticks to the same exploring pace.

Which leaves Sam no choice but to fight dirty. His hands slip from Tron's shoulders—almost like an accident, but for the fact that he knows exactly where they're going. He lets his fingers ghost along the circuits at Tron's throat, traces lower until he reaches the bright sequence of panels just above Tron's collarbone. Those four panels that if he touches just so will make Tron come apart.

Tron gasps above him, circuits pulsing bright with heightened arousal, but though he presses deeper, he doesn't seem inclined to hurry things along.

If anything, he seems stubbornly set on making this last as long as possible.

Sam is with him in theory, but at the moment he's wound too tightly to think about anything but how impatient he is to have more than Tron's fingers inside of him.

Sam leans forward then, propping himself on one elbow so he can press teasing kisses to Tron's chest. He tastes the electric pulse of power beneath his tongue as he licks at the intricate circuits along Tron's throat, then a sharper spike of energy as he traces lower and finds those same four panels. 

Sam trails his hand lower as Tron shudders. He touches shimmering circuits along Tron's chest and stomach as he quests further south, and then finally reaches his goal.

Tron's cock gives an eager pulse when Sam's fingers close around him. Even here Tron's skin is cooler than a human's. But there's a warm, electric pulse of circuitry along the firm length in Sam's grasp, and he tightens his grip and gives a deliberate tug.

Tron's fingers fall still inside him as Tron's voice erupts in a surprised shout of pleasure. Sam smirks against Tron's chest, then grunts as Tron's full weight bears down on top of him. 

Tron's mouth is at Sam's throat now, rough kisses that are as much teeth as tongue. Tron's fingers disappear from Sam's ass, abruptly enough that Sam breathes a startled, " _Ah_!" at the sensation, but the discomfort is short-lived.

When Tron braces himself on one arm and looks Sam in the eye, Sam knows somehow that this is finally it. Tron's circuits are glowing impossibly bright. There's power flashing visibly in his eyes, and Sam suspects his own look the same. He uses the hand already curled around Tron's cock to guide him into place.

He couldn't tear his gaze from Tron's if he tried, and Sam holds his breath and nods. 

Tron thrusts forward without breaking eye contact, driving roughly into Sam's body, and Sam's breath rushes out of him in a wordless gasp. 

He feels like a circuit going live. Tron kisses him, and Sam's eyes must've closed because he can't see, all he can do is feel. The power surging and mounting between them sets his skin tingling as he shudders and wraps his arms around Tron's shoulders—as he clings so tightly he's not sure he'll ever remember how to let go.

Tron's tongue is in his mouth, rough and claiming, and somewhere even deeper Sam feels the forceful thrust of Tron's cock filling him, Tron's hips drawing back then snapping forward, jostling Sam on the bed. Sam's body rocks to meet him. The lines of circuitry along Tron's skin are superheated contrast to the program's cool flesh, and deep inside, Sam feels the difference more intensely with every thrust. 

When Tron goes still inside him, Sam's muscles tighten and make both of them gasp. He'd buck forward if he could—urge Tron back into motion, closer to the mounting edge of the orgasm Sam can already feel rushing towards them.

But Tron's body is unyielding weight above him, and Sam's got nowhere near the physical strength necessary to make Tron _move_ when Tron is determined to hold maddeningly still.

He's stubborn and motionless, buried to the hilt in the willing warmth of Sam's body, and Sam is struggling too hard for breath to voice any protest.

"Look at me," Tron says softly. The command startles Sam, and he opens his eyes. He hadn't even realized they were still closed. He finds Tron watching him with an unbearable weight of awe.

Sam wonders what his own face is giving away right now. He's got no secrets left. He has nothing to hide from Tron. But he's so in love his chest hurts with it sometimes, and he's terrified at the thought of just how clearly he might be broadcasting his vulnerability.

Tron moves, then. Slowly. He pulls halfway out of Sam's body before pressing forward again. He keeps Sam from hurrying him with a commanding hand on Sam's hip, impossible strength holding him immobile as Tron's cock slides back into him by maddening degrees.

When he's got no deeper to go, he does it again. He doesn't speed his pace.

Seven thrusts he completes that way, never breaking eye contact. Eight, and Sam can feel tremors beginning to shake through his body as desperation settles beneath his skin. Nine, and he thinks he can see frantic energy struggling in Tron's eyes, warring with the careful control measuring his movements.

Ten, and that frantic energy snaps free. Tron surges forward with a rush of power, movements going suddenly savage. He finds a fast, rough rhythm, and Sam doesn't have a chance to meet it as Tron's weight bears him down. Tron's hands grasp at him, bruising Sam's thighs, his hips as Tron guides Sam's body—as he thrusts deeper, harder, and makes Sam accommodate every greedy inch.

Sam's not complaining. He's too busy falling apart.

Sam comes first. His orgasm hits him like a cascade of raw power, surging and lighting the room. He clings to Tron, burying his voice against the program's throat as a second wave hits him and carries him even higher.

Tron isn't long behind him. Sam thinks it's his name he hears Tron gasp, but he's still riding too high to be sure of anything beyond the overwhelming racket of sensation pouring through his body.

Christ, at this rate Sam's not sure he'll ever come back down.

\- — - — - — - — -

  
Hours later the room is quiet, the lights dimmed to a more intimate level, and Sam thinks he might have fallen asleep.

He can't help that he feels exhausted, or that it's so easy to feel comfortable like this, draped across Tron, feeling the quiet buzz of Tron's circuits beneath his fingers. Sam's cheek rests on Tron's chest, right over the spot Tron's heart would be if he had one, and quiet contentment softens the edges of Sam's groggy thoughts.

Tron's fingers are restless along his back and in his hair, but Sam doesn't mind. There's something reassuring, even satisfying in the way Tron can't seem to stop touching him. Besides, the wandering touch feels nice, and Sam breathes a contented sound, curling even closer.

"How long can you stay?" Tron asks, trailing one hand over Sam's flank and letting his thumb sketch idle patterns on Sam's hip.

Sam takes a moment to calculate how much time has passed. He has to reach out with his mind, into the surrounding code, to fill in the gaps where he knows he's missing time.

It's barely been a millicycle. Sam smiles and tucks his head beneath Tron's chin.

"I've got all day, man. I told Quorra to give me twelve hours before reactivating the laser sequence." That translates to nearly a month here on the Grid (never mind the calculation of time into cycles), and for once Sam doesn't feel the slightest hint of guilt for wanting to lie here with Tron instead of getting back to work.

The Grid can wait another millicycle. As it stands, Sam knows his work is nearly complete. It won't be long before the system can maintain itself again, the way it was designed to.

"Hey." Sam props himself on one elbow so he can look Tron in the eye. 

Tron arches his eyebrows and waits silently for Sam to continue. 

"Let's do that again," Sam says.

Tron's eyebrows rise even higher, skeptical amusement warring with the first renewed sparks of heat behind his eyes. As if he still can't quite believe just how insatiable—how _demanding_ —Sam can be.

"I mean," Sam hedges, voice deliberately teasing, "assuming you're up to it."

Goading Tron has exactly the desired effect, and in the span of a blink Sam finds himself flat on his back with Tron kneeling above him. Tron's fingers encircle Sam's wrists, hard and inescapable, and the look on Tron's face is fierce with want.

"That's what I thought," Sam says with a satisfied smirk.

He doesn't get the chance to gloat. Tron is all over him too quickly for that, and it's all Sam can do to hang on.

\- — - — - — - — -

  
He finishes repairing the Grid in what feels like record time. The hard reboot has solidified the deepest base code, and the surface structures come together easily now, all the faster since Sam no longer has to run for cover at the first sign of company.

In fact he and Tron are hardly ever alone these days. There are always onlookers, there to watch him work—maybe even there to protect him, in some strange way. The violent anti-User faction has been demolished, but Tron is right about the continuing importance of caution. Who knows how many hostile programs might have made it out before the fighting came to a stop.

Not many, Sam hopes, but he still finds the extra eyes reassuring as he works. 

By the time he has to return to the real world, the Grid is solid and whole and stunning. There are still bits and pieces to recode, but Sam figures that will always be the case.

No system is perfect.

\- — - — - — - — -

  
"We should celebrate," Quorra informs him after the laser reconstructs him in his chair. She's leaning with unworried ease against the edge of the desk, near, but not so close as to risk standing within reach of the active laser beam.

"You've been watching?" Sam finds himself smiling. His eyes dart to the computer screen, where a cascade of text scrolls with a mountain of information.

"You said you were getting close," Quorra says, shrugging casually. "I was curious." There's no hint of apology in her eyes. 

She's got as valid an interest in the Grid as he does, Sam realizes. Maybe more so. His father's miracle indeed.

"Anyway," Quorra continues, smile quirking at one corner of her mouth. "You've finished, haven't you? You rebuilt an entire _world_. I'd say congratulations are in order."

"If you say so," Sam says, a matching smile tugging at his own lips.

"Come on." Quorra pushes up from the table and holds a hand out to him. "Put that thing in standby mode and let's get a drink. I'm buying."

It takes three key-taps to put the system to sleep, and then Sam accepts Quorra's hand and lets her yank him out of his chair.

"You're not buying," Sam says, nudging her with a shoulder as they move towards the door. "You have no money."

"I have money." A mischievous spark glints in Quorra's eye.

Sam's eyebrows arch high, and he asks, "How?"

The mischief in Quorra's face just flashes brighter, her smile widening to bare her teeth.

"Wouldn't _you_ like to know," she teases.

But she offers no further explanation, and Sam decides not to press the issue as he follows her out the door.


	8. Epilogue

It's almost two weeks later before Sam works up the nerve to approach Alan about the Grid.

He can't help thinking his display of nerves is ridiculous. He works with Alan every day. Talks to him now with an easier rapport than they've ever had. But this is different. This is important.

Not that Encom isn't important, but… God, Sam had a plan when he first stepped into Alan's office, he's sure of it.

"Is everything all right, Sam?" Alan asks him after Sam spends a full, wordless minute standing just inside his door.

The question snaps Sam out of his stupor at least, even if he's still not sure how to say what he came for.

"Yeah." Sam takes a step forward and closes the door behind him. "Totally fine. _More_ than fine, actually. I uh… I've been meaning to talk to you about something."

Alan sets aside his pen and the file full of charts he'd been poring through. His expression is quiet curiosity, and he pushes his chair back, stands and rounds his desk. He gestures Sam towards one of the matching chairs on the other side of the desk. 

Sam crosses the room and slides into the chair. Alan settles into the seat beside him and leans forward on his elbows, offering Sam his full attention.

Sam stalls helplessly for a moment. He's not sure why he's stuck on this part. This is the easy part, the part that will probably just make Alan smile and clap him on the shoulder in that warm, almost paternal way he has. But for some reason Sam's voice is lodged in his chest, and it's only Alan's patient silence that finally lets him find the words.

"I'm involved with someone," Sam finally blurts. "It's… This probably seems sudden, but I swear it's not. Not that I've been deliberately keeping secrets or anything either, oh god, that isn't—"

"Sam, slow down," Alan interrupts him, startled expression giving way to a soft smile. There's no accusation in his eyes. No hurt at being left out of the loop. Just a warm fondness as he reaches out (just like Sam expected) and sets a hand on Sam's arm. "I'm happy for you."

Relief makes Sam sag forward in his seat, and he chuckles as some of his baseless anxiety drains away.

"So," Alan says, taking his hand back. "Are you going to tell me about her?"

"Him," Sam corrects automatically, then feels his cheeks heat as he realizes he's got no idea what Alan's reaction to that will be.

But Alan just nods without skipping a beat and says, "Tell me about him."

Sam grins and says, "Actually, I was thinking it's about time you two met."

"Really?" Alan looks surprised at that—and a little teary, if Sam looks too closely, so he tries not to.

"Alan, come on," Sam says. "You're _family_. Of course I want you to meet him." It's going to be awkward as hell. Sam's got no delusions on that score. But he can't think of any other way to really make Alan _see_ , and he's long overdue on his promise to show Alan the Grid.

"Count me in, then," Alan says. "What are you thinking, then? Dinner? Brunch? Star Wars marathon?" He's obviously joking about the last, but Sam appreciates the suggestion anyway. 

"None of the above, actually. But if you're not too busy, I was thinking we could do it tonight."

"So soon?" Alan blinks in surprise.

"Come on." Sam stands in a smooth motion and reaches out to tug Alan to his feet. "I know for a fact those figures can wait until morning."

"But where are we going?" Alan asks, following Sam despite his evident confusion.

"It's a surprise," Sam says. "But hurry up." 

He tugs the door open, impatient now that his course is set. And as Alan watches him step into the hall, Sam turns and throws a reassuring smile over his shoulder.

"Trust me," Sam says. "You won't want to miss this."


End file.
